


I Don't Want to Spoil the Party...

by PAPERSK1N



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1960s Music, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual John, Horny Teenagers, House Party, Infidelity, M/M, Marijuana, Mick Jagger is a flirty fucker and John hates him, Musicians, Non-Explicit Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rock and Roll, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Smoking, Teenage Drama, Teenagers, Underage Drinking, bisexual Paul, bisexual everyone to be fair, george/ringo if you squint, it's 2018 but Paul and the lads are pathetically commited to their uber cool vintage aesthetic, like the stones and bob dylan, ok maybe a sprinkle more george / ringo than i initially planned, pretentious art students, so like, various other rockers of the era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-04-29 21:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14481663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PAPERSK1N/pseuds/PAPERSK1N
Summary: Finally, Paul has the chance to break into the cool side of the Liverpool social scene with the musicians and the art students thanks to Ivan, George reluctant and grumbling at his side. They get an invite toJohn Lennon'shouse for a party, and Paul's looking to get drunk, get high, and make a statement.He certainly gets what he wishes for when he meets John Lennon, and cool fucking facade be damned, because he might just have fallen in love at first sight.There's a catch, however. John's got a girlfriend. Paul doesn'tfuckboys with girlfriends. Not anymore.John has a funny way of fucking up his so-called rules.





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> part one of three :)

I Don't Want to Spoil the Party...

 

PART ONE

 

 

 

“I don’t know Paul.” George was _dithering_ again, somehow unable to remain still  for so much as a second, shifting from foot to foot on the doorstep with the bottle of vodka Paul had talked him into swiping from his dad’s booze cupboard cradled close to his chest. He’d never looked more like a scrawny, frightened little _kid_ in all his life. Paul was finding his annoyance growing steadily but- Paul did as he always did when faced with George’s _dithering_ \- he took a breath and forced a smile.

 

“For once, Geo, just be cool.” He muttered through gritted teeth, tapping his foot impatiently as the doorbell rang out a long, melodic tune. The house, ‘ _Mendips’_ , looked nice enough- far grander than the semi-detached council dwellings he and George were used to in their slightly rougher neck of the woods, only twenty minutes or so away from _menlove_ avenue. It was hardly a luxurious mansion, nor a grandiose London town-house but, Paul supposed, to George (who’d never even stepped foot out of his own postcode his whole life) it was probably quite intimidating. Not to Paul, of course. Paul didn’t _get_ intimidated. Paul was the _king_ of _keeping it cool_.

 

“Maybe we should turn back. Maybe he didn’t really mean it.”

 

“Ivan wouldn’t have invited us if he didn’t want us here.” Paul rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a high-school movie, George. _Relax_. He texted me half an hour ago asking if we were still coming.”

 

“I know, but-”

 

Thankfully, before George could try and talk him into turning back for the third time that evening, the front door to this strange, foreign home flew open and Paul’s face lit up in a relieved smile as he found himself eye-to-eye with his cool, slightly older friend _Ivan_ \- who seemed more than a little intoxicated, and plenty happy to see him.

 

“Paul McCartney!” Ivan cheered, holding up a beer in toast before inviting them both into the well lit, middle-class looking home. “And little _Georgie-Porgie._ ” He ruffled George’s hair a little too forcefully, earning himself a narrowed glare. George probably wanted to snap back, but Paul shot him a warning look that told him to bite his tongue if he knew what was good for himself.

 

“Come in,” Ivan carried on with his drunken lilt, oblivious to their silent spat. “Welcome to _Lennon_ manor.”

 

“Wait, isn’t this your house?” George asked Ivan, but his frustrated glare was certainly aimed at Paul. He’d only agreed to come to the party based solely on the promise that the party was _Ivan’s_ party, held at _Ivan’s_ house, that Paul had been directly invited to. George hated the idea of being a _plus one_ , let alone a _plus one_ to someone else’s _plus one_ at a house party with a bunch of people he’d never even met before.

 

“No, it’s John’s.” Ivan didn’t bother taking note of George’s grouchiness, throwing an arm around Paul and pulling him along through the packed hallway, heavy rock and roll music blasting around them, smoke hanging in the air and swivelling, glassy eyes following them at every step. George kept his mouth shut, trailing behind Paul as Ivan rambled on about the _little shindig_ being in _full swing_ , steering them into the kitchen.

 

“A shot, to get us started?” Paul proposed, taking the vodka from George’s arms ( _without asking_ , George noted bitterly) and knocking off the cap with his teeth. He really needed Ivan to think he was game for anything if they were going to continue to be invited to these kind of parties with the cool, older _art school_ crowd, so he took a hefty swig, and did his best to ignore the harsh burn in the back of his throat and the sudden instinct to choke, before wiping off his mouth with the back of his leather jacket sleeve.

 

“Gotta wait for the host first!” Ivan grinned, but he nodded along in approval- clearly impressed by Paul’s, feat before his eyes swivelled over to George, expectantly, and Paul’s younger friend followed suit with a slightly smaller swig. “I’ve been meaning to introduce you two for ages.”

 

“I know, you said.”

 

“He… he, uh… writes songs, music and shite. Did-did I tell you that?”

 

“You did.” Paul laughed as Ivan stumbled slightly, reaching over to hold his shoulder for support. “Christ, lad, how much have you had?”

 

“Too much.” Came a slightly gravelled voice from behind them. Paul turned to see an older boy, about his height but maybe just a hair taller with squinting, almond shaped eyes and light, almost bronze-coloured hair, slightly curled and sticking up in a well-sculpted quiff. Paired with his positively beaten black leather jacket, blue jeans and tight white t-shirt, he looked like some kind of wannabe teddy-boy from the nineteen fifties. When it came to _retro_ -stylings, Paul certainly felt that the sixties was his era of choice, but this boy certainly made the look work, and he _dug_ it.

 

“ _John_!” Ivan slurred, leaning off Paul and instead slumping onto this _rocker_ , who promptly rolled his eyes and neatly side-stepped Ivan’s sloppy advances, leaving him to stumble off into some girl, sadly caught in the crossfire. He bumped her shoulder, and her drink sloshed over the red cup, trickling onto the floor and drenching most of her ( _white,_ what a _pity)_ shirt.

 

“Jesus, watch the upholstery!” John yelled after him, but Ivan was long gone, lost in the bird’s eyes (or, more importantly, her exposed chest) as he got a shaky, drunken look at her face (and the rest) and decided that actually, she was a bit of alright, and he didn’t mind hanging around to apologise. “Drunken prick.” John grumbled.

 

“I’m guessing this is your house then.” George said, and Paul had quite honestly forgotten he was even there before he piped up, too busy staring at _John_ in awe. George took another swig from the vodka bottle, much smoother this time and John seemed amused, raising one fair eyebrow with the ghost of smile shortly following. Paul was unsure whether this meant he was impressed or just a little irritated at being introduced to these two strangers who had already started on the _bevs_ without so much as a hello.

 

“That it is.” He nodded, reaching forwards and snatching the bottle from George’s scrawny grip, taking a stiff drink for himself.

 

“Oi, that’s mine!”

 

“You’re in my house, what’s yours is mine, rules of engagement, I’m afraid.”

 

“He’s not wrong.” Paul offered a laugh as John took another drink, clear spirit sploshing against the glass bottle, giving him a chance to pinch George on the arm, reminding him silently to _be cool._ George and Paul didn’t exactly _get_ invited to parties with older kids from the _Liverpool College of Art_ , as they were generally dismissed as grammar school fuddy-duddies. It was only through Ivan Paul had caught something of a lose thread in ways of infiltrating this side of the social scene, and unwilling to go it alone, dragged George along after him wherever possible.

 

“How old are you anyway? Fourteen?” John was looking down his tremendous, Roman nose at little shrew-eyed George, who, to his own credit, didn’t shrink away from his piercing gaze and actually stood up a little straighter, holding John’s gaze.

 

“I’m sixteen.” He said proudly.

 

“And your friend?” John nodded towards Paul, who preened at the chance to be shown some attention, but he was duly disappointed. John didn’t break eye contact with George, who was quick to reply-

 

“He’s seventeen. Just turned. And yourself?”

 

“Eighteen. Nineteen this autumn. Too old for you though, son.” He shot George a wink, making his skin instantly flush a deep red. Without thinking, he looked away, and John’s flirtatious smirk spread into a triumphant, smug grin. Clearly, he’d won this little battle of wills, and Paul had to admit he was quite amused himself by the whole charade. He didn’t suspect George would share his amusement, but then, George didn’t seem to enjoy much of _anything_ these days, and was going through a bit of an angsty phase (according to his mum).

 

“Whatever.” He grumbled, taking the bottle back and having another drink, this one even heavier than the last. “Nice to meet ya, I suppose. George, Harrison.”

 

“John Lennon. What about your doe-eyed friend ‘ere?”

 

At that, George smirked. “He doesn’t mean to be so pretty, he was just supposed to be a girl, s’all. That’s Paul. McCartney.”

 

“ _The_ Paul McCartney, ey?”

 

Paul didn’t have a chance to bite back at George for his shallow little dig over his looks, too distracted at the way John’s eyes lit up when he name was mentioned. Incredibly interested, he took this as his chance to speak up, more than sick of being shut out of this playful back-and-forth game George and John had fallen into without him. If anything, John should’ve been having a laugh with _him_ , as he was the one invited. He was the one who actually _wanted_ to go. George never _got on_ with anyone, aside from him!

 

“What’s it to you?” he gave his best _tough-guy_ impression, which often came across as more of an egotistical flirt, not that he minded, because he was certainly attracted to John and didn’t mind sticking his neck on the line and taking a chance. He jutted out his soft chin in John’s direction, flicked his mop-top fringe out of his eyes, and smirked.

 

“Nothing, Ivan won’t shut up about ya, s’all.” John shrugged flippantly, seemingly resistant to Paul’s easy charms. “Think he fancies you, that one. Begged me to invite you and your little boy-toy along.”

 

“Ivan? No chance. He’s a good mate, but I wouldn’t go near him even if I wrapped it up twice over.”

 

“And this one?” he nodded to George. Paul scoffed.

 

“My _boy_ - _toy_? No, such luck I’m afraid. Too scrawny for me.”

 

“Just friends then?”

 

“Yeah. Just good friends.”

 

“Good to know.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“I am actually still here you know.” George huffed, interrupting their quickfire flirting but failing to interrupt John and Paul’s staring match. It soon became aware that whatever energy was sparking between the two of them needed to run itself into the ground before he’d have a chance to just slip back in, so George took it as his opportunity to escape the weird, heated atmosphere and find his own fun. “I suppose I’ll just… go and mingle then.” He muttered, keeping the bottle of vodka clutched in his fist before pushing past Paul, disappearing into the crowd.

 

Paul didn’t bother watching after him. Usually, he really did think of George as something like his little baby brother (even though, as George _constantly_ reminded him, there was only eight months between them) and was eager to look out him in situations like this where he wasn’t exactly _in his element_ , cheer him on when he pulled a bird or light him a ciggie outside if the booze made him feel queasy- but on this night, at this strange, foreign art-school party, something was different.

 

Paul didn’t know what it was about this _John Lennon_ , but within minutes of meeting, he was effectively trapped in his narrowed, squinting gaze, and he liked it.

 

“I don’t have my glasses on, but you actually seem like a bit of alright.” John flirted outright, apparently done with their coy game of looks and smiles. His boldness caught Paul off guard. It was no secret that he swung all kinds of ways, seeing no point in limiting his opportunity to get laid on a night out- but he found that when it came to seducing blokes, it was more of a thoughtful pursuit- all subtle nuances and innuendo before either of them were comfortable enough to advance things, right out in the open. John, however, didn’t seem like the kind of bloke who bothered waiting around for a _sign_ , and clearly didn’t mind a slight risk of getting his head kicked in by the wrong kind of lad if it meant he had a chance to get his rocks off.

 

( _Not_ that Paul was thinking about getting his rocks off with John, a bloke he’d only known five minutes. Not at _all_.)

 

“Thanks.” He stuck with his original plan- playing things as cool as possible. Being his method of choice, tried and tested fifty times over, Paul found that it usually worked well for him in maintaining an advantage over his target- but, he had to admit- this time around John had him right on the hook, and was reeling him in closer by the second. _Literally_ \- Paul wasn’t sure how- but sometime in the last few minutes John had swum his way right up into Paul’s personal space, and their faces were hovering close enough that he could smell John’s breath- beer and fag-ash mixed with minty chewing gum, smoking him out in the most disgusting, yet strangely appealing, cloud of scent.

 

He swallowed thickly, feeling a little nervous and certainly way too sober. “You’re not too bad either, I suppose. If you dig the fifties look.”

 

“You look like Elvis.” John told him with a slight laugh, reaching forwards to tuck a wayward lock of dark hair behind his ear, establishing a physical connection between them that tickled Paul like static electricity, over far too soon when John dropped his hand back by his side at safe distance. “I dig it.”

 

“Now _that’s_ a compliment!” Paul laughed back, forgetting his cool in favour of geeking out at the slightest mention of possibly his _favourite_ musician. “I bloody love Elvis.”

 

“Really?” John looked excited rather than repulsed at his enthusiasm, his flirtatious façade slipping away too, just as briefly, eyes lighting up.

 

“Yeah! He’s… well, he’s _gear_.”

 

“ _Gear_? Who says _gear_?” he laughed. “I thought it was 2018, not the bloody nineteen-sixties!”

 

“Oh, shit- sorry,” Paul stuttered, cheeks flaming pink. He’d forgotten his one working tactic. He’d forgotten to _be_ _cool_. John had mentioned Elvis and he’d fucking fallen in love, forgetting that when it came to rock and roll he turned into a dithering, pathetic fan-boy, unable to control himself as factoid after factoid burst from between his lips. “Me and George- we have this thing. When we were kids his dad told us about all the slang they used to use in the sixties and we sort of… adopted it, I guess.”

 

“ _Cool_.”

 

“It’s lame.”

 

“It _is_ pretty lame, yeah.”

 

“Hold on just a sec!” Paul rolled his eyes, spotting John’s disingenuous tone from a mile off. “Referencing Elvis and dressing the way you do- seems like you can hardly bash me for liking old fashioned shite.”

 

“Alright, you got me there, lad. Love a bit of fifties nostalgia, rock and roll. _Hardcore_ stuff, you know.”

 

“I wouldn’t call _be-bop-a-lu-a_ hardcore.”

 

“That’s where you’re wrong then.” John smiled, and Paul already knew he wouldn’t be able to forget the look on his face anytime soon. “It might not be heavy metal, but those classic rock and roll stars- Little Richard and Chuck Berry and Elvis… they were the _original_ hardcore. Before hardcore even existed.”

 

“And I thought I was the vintage-nerd.” Paul laughed. “Do you dig the seventies too then? Would explain why it’s like a low budget _Studio 54_ in here.”

 

It was a joke, but certainly not without merit. This party was unlike any kind Paul had been to before- people were gathered in various corners, all with fags or (if his nose was detecting correctly) joints stuffed in their mouths or balanced between their fingers, uncaring of the smoke curling into the expensive wallpaper. Old-school rock’n’roll blasted around them, and in the corner of his eye, Paul was sure he saw a group of lads and skinny girls in short dresses racking out lines of something white and powdery. John seemed unbothered by the debauchery that surrounded him, which struck Paul as odd, because judging by the fact that he was only eighteen and the walls were adorned with framed, faded photos and family affects, the house couldn’t’ve just been _his_.

 

“Well, there’ll certainly be no disco underneath _my_ roof as long as I’m living and breathing, but I see what you mean.” John huffed, looking around the room, only slightly irritated. “But, could be worse I suppose. Last time I agreed to have a party, someone on LSD climbed up to my roof and tried to jump off, thinking they could fly.”

 

“Oh Jesus, what happened?”

 

“He couldn’t.”

 

“Right.” Paul swallowed a little awkwardly. He longed for the previous flirty atmosphere. He longed for anything that wasn’t quite so sobering. “What made you throw another after that, then?”

 

John shrugged. “Alex recovered. Plus, my mate Stu was meant to be coming back from Germany with his bird so, Aunty away, Lennon will play, that sort of thing.” he looked away, then, fixed his hair and cast eyes on the floor, jittering and all at once. It seemed to Paul that John was trying incredibly hard to seem nonchalant, and it definitely wasn’t working.

 

“You’re a good mate, then.”

 

“Too good.” John bit. “Didn’t even show up, the bastard. Got struck with a wave of inspiration and decided he couldn’t bare to part from his precious painting or his precious girlfriend. Artists. You know the type.”

 

“I can hardly talk.” Paul laughed, hoping to lighten the mood. “I’m a musician. Doesn’t get more cliché than that.”

 

John lifted his eyes to look at him then, and Paul was thankful to see that coy, subtle smirk return to his face. His eyes lit up again, and Paul found himself fascinated by the colour- brown, sure, but almost golden in the way they caught the light, sparkling and mysterious.

 

“Me too.” He said. “Not very good, mind you. But I have a go on the old strummer every now and then.”

 

“Well I’d love to listen.”

 

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”

 

Just as Paul thought he could feel John leaning into him even closer, gaze flicking from his eyes to his lips and back up again in tell-tale, rapid succession, their perfect little bubble was burst by a loud crash, followed by a groan, voice sounding suspiciously like it belonged to _Ivan_ before a small crowd burst into a cheer.

 

John shut his eyes at let out a controlled, shaking breath.

 

“Fucking hell.” He muttered, revealing a dark, angry gaze that Paul was relieved not to be on the receiving end of. “’scuse me, Paul, just a sec. I promise, I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere, right?”

 

Without another word, he brushed past Paul and disappeared off in the direction of the noise. Then, Paul was left alone, standing in the middle of the room, realising that he’d been at the party for a good twenty or so minutes and hadn’t poured himself a drink, had a fag, or spoken to _anyone_. He’d been wrapped up in John from the minute they locked eyes, and now, looking around, he realised that he didn’t actually know anyone he laid eyes on.

 

Part of him really wanted to stand there like a lemon and just _wait_ for John to come back, but people were starting to give him odd looks, and if there was one thing Paul couldn’t stand, it was sticking out like a sore thumb. Being the centre of attention, he could dig, but a social pariah- he couldn’t _stand_ the idea. He’d find John again eventually. Until then, he figured, tracking down George was his best bet.

 

* * *

 

 

It took him a while, canvassing the party and asking over and over again if anyone had seen a skinny lad with a mop-top bigger than his own head and eyebrows that could be seen from _space_ until, finally, someone pointed him in the direction of the living room, telling him with a light chuckle that they’d seen some _kid_ stumble in there earlier with a wayward group of so-called musicians. Rory _star_ or something daft. Paul did his best not to roll his eyes. George was so bloody predictable sometimes.

 

As soon as he opened the living room door, Paul was hit with the pungent scent of _marijuana-_ and not the cheap skunk they occasionally nicked from George’s big brother’s stash. No, this was some _premium_ grass, and stepping inside, it felt as if the entire room was draped in a cloudy fog. Rock music was playing from an audio link on the television, and slipping the door closed behind him, Paul felt as if he’d been moved into some sort of separate, _VIP_ section of the party, eyes following over to a group of boys, gathered around the big sofa.

 

And, of course, right in the centre Paul found his George, sunk into the crease between two sofa cushions, eyes blood-red, a fat, dopey smile sparking on his face and a fat joint hung between his lips.

 

“-and then,” laughed the lad sitting to his right, a blonde boy with freckles and slight chip to his tooth. “-the bird swept down and swiped the cone straight from his hands!”

 

“No way!” George cackled, failing to notice Paul even as he stood right in front of them, too busy leaning against the boy to his left, slightly shorter than him but nowhere near as thin, hair dark and eyes sparkling _blue_.

 

“George?” Paul cleared his throat, sick of being ignored by the giggling, stoned group. He’d hardly had much time between arriving at the party and being enthralled by John to get even a little buzzed himself, and was disappointed to notice that George’s vodka was already almost empty, and gripped in the fist of a stranger who had no problem helping himself to some pretty hefty swigs.

 

“Paul!” George sang, sitting up a little and waving the joint in the air as he spotted his friend. “There you are! Lads, this is Paul, remember I said-”

 

“-we remember,” Blue eyes chuckled. “You only mentioned him a thousand times.”

 

“You’re _stoned_.” Paul shook his head with a thin-lipped smile, amused. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen George like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Paul just felt a little sorry for this new group of lads. They didn’t know George like he did. George got _clingy_ when he was high. Paul nodded to the joint. “Who’s given you that then?”

 

“Ringo’s mates.” George drawled, gesturing to the blue-eyed boy as he took another strong hit. “Uh…. _Bob,_ and _Dylan_.”

 

“ _Christ_ ,” This boy, _Ringo_ (a stupid- frankly confusing- name by Paul’s catholic-family standards) giggled, shaking his head at George with a fond smile. “How high are you, lad? It’s _Bob Dylan_ , just the one guy!”

 

“Well, that’s ridiculous. Why does he get to have two first names?”

 

“Coming from _George Harrison_?”

 

“Still! Bob _Dylan_ … that’s _hilarious_. Who gave him that?”

 

“His parents, I suppose.”

 

Rolling his eyes at their quick-fire back and forth, Paul moved a little closer until he was perched on the edge of the settee, just beside ‘ _Ringo’_. George passed the joint over to him with a smile, and seeing as nobody else in the group seemed to object, Paul took a deep hit, grateful for something to take his mind off the boy with the teddy-curls he’d met earlier on. He still couldn’t stop thinking about John. George’s stoned ramblings weren’t nearly enough distraction.

 

“Thanks for bringing me Paul.” He mumbled, eyes half-closed as he practically melted into the sofa, so squished between the two boys that he was more or less in Ringo’s lap, one bony leg slung over his own. “Thanks, so much.”

 

“It’s alright mate,” Paul chuckled.

 

“Hmm… _thanks_ , though. Really, thanks. Sorry for being… arsey… about coming.”

 

“It’s fine, Geo.”

 

“Did… did I tell you I met Ringo? Isn’t he _lovely_?” He grinned, knocking his head against Ringo’s fondly, eyes shut tightly.

 

“Jesus, lad.” Ringo chuckled, rolling his eyes. “No more smoke for you. And I told you, it’s _Ritchie_. Ringo is just a stupid nickname. Rory calls me it because I wear rings, and he thinks he’s _funny_.” He kicked out with his foot, nudging one of the other boys who sat on the floor in front of the sofa, puffing away at his own joint. The boy looked up, shooting them a filthy grin.

 

“I am funny!”

 

“Jog on.” Ringo glared, before shifting his gaze back to Paul. “Ritchie is fine, honest. Paul, isn’t it?”

 

“Hullo, uh, Ritchie.” He reached out awkwardly with the joint, shaking hands with the blue-eyed boy before the beaten-in politeness overtook him, and he handed the joint back over. “I’m Paul, yeah.”

 

Ringo had barely nodded- barely taken another hit- before George’s hands were waving into his face like a child clamouring for its parent’s attention. “Give it back now, Ringo. Please?”

 

“No _way_.”

 

“Ritch! _Ritchie!_... come on!”

 

“Fine.” Ringo huffed, taking another pull before handing the joint over to George, who smiled sweetly before inhaling yet another heavy lungful of smoke, pure-white whips curling out from his nostrils before he even had a chance to inhale properly. “But on your own head be it,” Ringo chided, sounding more like a protective big-brother than a stranger. The rings on his fingers gleamed as he ran a hand through his thick hair, before turning back to Paul with a smile. “Don’t worry, Paul. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

 

“Thanks mate.” Paul nodded, standing up from the couch. Sure, the joint had given him a small buzz, but he was nowhere near stoned enough to sit in the dark little room with these boys any longer. Their giggly, lad-like humour was lost on him, and there wasn’t a chance he was going to get stoned enough to keep up with them. There weren’t enough hours in the night- and despite everything, Paul was _still_ thinking about John. John had told him to _stay there_. He was probably looking for him, _right now_ , and a few puffs had given him a little confidence _._ He was desperate for a flirt, sure he’d be able to hold John’s eye contact this time without turning into a blushing, stuttering mess.  “Shout me if he gives you any trouble, okay?”

 

“Bye Paul!” George sing-songed back at him, letting out a long slow whine as Ringo snatched the joint back and _Rory_ launched into a story about _Butlins_ and the beers he’d managed to swipe there when his mother wasn’t looking.

 

* * *

 

 

Alone and just a little high, Paul wandered back into the main room where the party carried on raging, nodding his head along to the blasting, house-shaking music, trying his best to look nonchalant as his eyes scanned across the rest of the room, searching for John. It was so loud, he could barely hear the conversations around him, teenage voices swirling into one incomprehensible blur of noise. Oddly enough, most of the people around him were smoking, so he figured John wouldn’t mind him lighting up a ciggie himself, and patted around his pockets for his pack.

 

 _Shit_ , Paul cursed inwardly. He’d left the fags with George. Surely they’d all been ponced by now, what with drunken George’s _generous_ nature. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d ever get them back.

 

Stilling his search for John, just for a second in favour for his new quest for fags, Paul looked around for his best chance at scoring a cig. His eyes quickly settled on a pretty red-headed girl, just the kind of anonymous pretty skirt he’d make a stab at during a party like this, George hanging on his arm, trying his best not to look bored as he was shrugged off on her dowdy friend. Meeting John so soon into the night had sort of ruined their usual routine, and Paul quickly ascertained that no matter how _gorgeous_ this pretty ginger girl looked, there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d manage to hold his intrigue like John had.

 

Still, she was smoking, so he figured he’d have a good chance at poncing a fag at least. That, and maybe she knew John, and could let him know where he’d gotten to.

 

“’Scuse me, love.” He approached the girl and her gawky-looking, mousy-haired friend with a confident, gleaming flirty smile. “No chance I could pinch one of your smokes, is there?”

 

“Smokes?” the mousy-haired girl laughed, but it came out more like a bark; harsh and loud, as if she was wired on some other kind of substance. At this kind of party, with this kind of crowd, Paul wouldn’t be surprised, and did his best to keep his expression neutral. The redheaded girl said nothing, just took another pull, exhaling smoke into the air with a smile. It didn’t look like a normal cigarette, but it wasn’t a joint either. Paul couldn’t smell weed.

 

“A fag?” he clarified.

 

“I got you. Just sounds weird, init? _Smokes._ Sounds like something my dad would say.”

 

Paul did a pretty good job at not letting his smile falter. This mousy haired girl was awkward and annoying, and he still couldn’t ascertain whether she was buzzed off something stronger than grass or not. He certainly hadn’t approached them to be grilled about his quirky, archaic slang. It was just something he and George _did_ , and once they’d started, it was hard to stop. He didn’t mind explaining it to John, laughing and blushing and letting him take the mickey. He just didn’t see the point of explaining it to _her_ , a girl he didn’t intend to ever see again.

 

“Do you have one?” he kept his eyes fixed on the first girl, the red-head, who seemed better looking the closer he got to her. Her features were quite striking, hair screaming red and a neatly cut fringe brushing her eyebrows. She looked like a model- but not the slim, five-foot-ten Cindy Crawford type he was used to seeing in magazines. She looked like a home-grown _English_ beauty. The sixties supermodel- before supermodels even existed.

 

He might have to come back to her, if John didn’t fancy him, after all.

 

“’Course.” She smiled, reaching into her little white handbag and pulling out a dark green pouch of tobacco. “They’re roll-ups though. Hope that’s okay?”

 

“Not a problem.”

 

Paul smiled and quietly watched her work, nimble white fingers rolling a perfect cigarette within a matter of minutes. Something passed between them as her eyes caught his and she passed the roll-up over, simultaneously reaching into the same bag to hand him a shiny pink plastic lighter.

 

“Thanks babe.” Paul couldn’t help himself, he flirted a little, shooting her a wink as he leant forwards into the flame.

 

“Oh God,” the mousy-haired girl suddenly said, pulling both his and the red-head’s attention, successfully interrupting their little moment. “Looks like John and Cyn are at it again.”

 

Paul span around instantly, following mousy-hair’s gaze over to the other side of the room. John was there, finally, Paul had spotted him- but John didn’t see him at all. John was too busy looking at someone else.

 

Someone blonde. Blonde and pretty, with winged eyeliner and a tight cream dress, arms folded across her chest, legs folded one-over-the other, looking close to tears from where she sat right in the centre of _John’s lap_.

 

“Who- who’s that then?” Paul asked, stuttering slightly as he pulled the fag from between his lips and narrowed his eyes, watching as John and the girl, _Cyn_ , or something, continued their quiet little dispute. John didn’t look angry, but he was certainly frustrated, talking it seemed a mile a minute with a tightly pulled frown, rubbing his hand up and down the girl’s creamy thigh in a way he must have thought reassuring. Clearly it wasn’t, as the girl only seemed to be growing more and more upset by the second.

 

“That’s John, he lives here.” The red-headed girl said, rolling her eyes slightly. “And that’s Cynthia, his girlfriend. Honestly, I don’t know why she stays with him. They’re always arguing- usually about him, fucking around behind her back.”

_Girlfriend_. Paul took another strong pull from his fag, but he didn’t even register the smoke burning at the back of his throat. Inside, he felt cold, frozen even. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, and the girls gossiping continued back and forth around him until he couldn’t hear anything else, just their high-pitched, judgemental nattering. Everything else faded away. Everything except John.

 

John and his _girlfriend_.

 

“She loves him, I suppose.”

 

“She’s an _idiot_.”

 

“Don’t be so harsh, Jane. John loves her too, you know!”

 

“Funny way of showing it, if you ask me.”

 

“You should see the way they are together when it isn’t like this. John writes her poems and stuff. It’s all dead romantic.”

 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

 

He was still staring, completely gormless as even the girls high-pitched chatter began to dissolve around him- and Paul was surprised it took John as long as he did to notice, brown eyes glancing over by chance as he stopped talking and finally let his _Cyn_ have a go. It didn’t seem like he was listening to a single word she said as he locked eyes with Paul. His expression was more or less blank, but his eyes seemed to widen slightly.

_Caught red handed_. Paul thought. If anything, John certainly looked _guilty_.

 

“I’m going to smoke this outside.” He said to the two girls, forcing himself to look away, gesturing to the fag that was still abandoned in his hand. “Too crowded in here for me.”

 

“I’m Jane. I didn’t actually catch your name-” redhead said, all bedroom eyes and subtle smile, but Paul wasn’t really in the mood for a flirt anymore and ignored her outright, rushing as quickly as he could off into the garden. The house was suddenly too hot, too full of people and smoke and noise and the moment he made it outside the cold air brushed Paul’s skin with a wave of relief. It hurt, of course it still _hurt_ , especially after the connection he’d thought he felt- the connection he was _sure_ John had felt too- suddenly becoming obsolete. But Paul was nothing if not a showman. He took a breath, straightened his sunken spine and adjusted his shirt, taking a drag of his smoke in the welcoming cool air.

 

All was not lost. Paul knew it would be easy to circle back into the room, pick up that red-head- _Jane_ \- and maybe get her number or a cheeky kiss or something more. Failing that, he could’ve found his way back into the living room, squeezed himself onto the edge of the couch next to Ringo, laughing at their nonsensical ramblings and watching little Georgie get so high that he couldn’t open his eyes. Even if his heart wasn’t really in it- he could _try_. Even if only to not let John know just how much of a blow he felt in the pit his stomach.

 

It took him a few minutes to finish his fag and regulate his breathing, but soon enough, Paul realised he wasn’t actually alone outside in the little garden. There were five other boys huddled around a bench, two in the middle and one on the edge, one stood behind and one crouched on the damp grass in front, all puffing on their own smokes and talking amongst themselves, glancing over at him every few seconds or so. Their clothes were loud and bright- the one in the middle who Paul thought might have been kind of _hot_ if he didn’t look like he weighed seven stone dripping wet and like a strange mix between fourteen and forty-five. He was looking right at Paul, too, ignoring his mates chatting around him, fixing him with a dark smile.

 

“Alright mate?” he called, accent thick and cockney. _Another Londoner_ , Paul thought, remembering the haughty posh accent Jane had shot at him just before. _He’s a long way from home._

 

“Fine thanks.” Paul replied, turning to face the lads, who were now all staring at him blankly. He didn’t move towards them, but did his best not to look at all intimated, standing with his hands on his hips in a way he hoped seemed casual.

 

“Fancy a beer?” the one on the right of the skinny one asked, all shaggy-dark hair hanging low over his eyebrows, half a smile on his face. He reached into a small carboard crate at their feet, and picked out a can, holding it forwards in offering. Shrugging, Paul supposed they seemed harmless enough, and made his way over to the bench.

 

“Thanks.” He cracked the beer and took a strong drink. God knows he needed it if he was going to last at this party much longer.

 

“Have ‘em.” The blonde one said. “Dunno why you bothered buying ‘em, Keith. You know there’s no point drinking when we’re on this stuff.”

 

Before Paul had a chance to thank him, let alone ask what exactly he meant by _this stuff_ , the blonde boy reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and withdrew a small, pink folded up ticket. Paul wasn’t stupid, and even though he hadn’t exactly grown up in the roughest part of Liverpool like some lads, he knew the standard procedure for _coke_ when he saw it.

 

“Give us a toot.” The skinny one reached forwards and took the ticket from his friend with only little resistance, unfolding it carefully to reveal a hefty portion of white powder. He took a pinch between his rough and beaten fingers, stuffed it in his nose and sniffed, throwing his head back with an excitable yell, shaking his hair from side to side, laughing like a hyena.

 

“Haven’t you had enough Mick?” one asked.

 

“Impossible.” _Mick_ replied, eyes going glassy as he wiped away the white dust clinging to the rim of his nostrils with back his hand. “Fancy a go, uh-”

 

“-Paul.”

 

“Paul. Yeah.” Mick smiled, maybe a little flirtatiously, but Paul supposed he couldn’t be sure. Some people were just friendly like that. Maybe John had just been friendly, earlier. Maybe it was Paul’s fault, looking into things that just weren’t there. “Have a toot.” Mick said, holding out the ticket. “You look like you might need it.”

 

“Thanks.” Paul took what he was offered, if only to be polite. It was like he told his brother Mike- drugs were expensive, and, most of the time, relatively harmless if you only tried it once or twice. If people were good enough to offer you powdered gold wrapped up in a paper ticket, there didn’t seem much point in saying no. Just because _dad_ wouldn’t have dared do such a thing back in the 1880s or whenever the fuck he’d grown up, didn’t mean they couldn’t take advantage of the fact that they were young and (fairly) robust.

 

The coke didn’t hit him straight away- but time moves strangely when you’re high. One minute Paul was sipping his beer and having pleasant enough conversation with Mick and his rag-tag group of cockney mates and the next minute he’d taken two more hits and his eyes felt heavy, his teeth felt like they’d swollen to twice their own size inside his mouth and his skin was hot- hot enough that he was stripping off his leather jacket and abandoning it on the bench, laughing hysterically with tears in his eyes at something one of the other boys- was it _Keith_ or was it _Brian_ , he couldn’t remember?-  said. Paul was laughing until his gut aches and his fingers tingled, upper lip almost completely numb from the coke he’d let Mick swipe across his gums.

 

Paul was laughing so hard, he didn’t even notice John enter the fray until it was too late, and he was stood right in front of them all leather and almost-blonde curls, staring down the other five boys with a look so dark, when Paul caught it for a second, he suddenly felt the outside chill, and pulled his jacket back onto his shoulders.

 

“Alright John?” Mick asked with a rough and ready grin, eyes sparkling with challenge. To his credit, John held his gaze, teeth gritted, arms folded across his chest.

 

“All the better for seeing you kid. Mind fucking off with your so-called band of little rat faced fucks so I can have a word with Paulie here?”

 

It was harsh. Harsher than Paul was expecting, for sure, but Mick didn’t flinch. None of the lads did, so he suspected this wasn’t exactly out of character, for either of them to be so curt. Paul didn’t actually move, instead watched on in silence as Mick stood up, not exactly eye-to-eye with John- more like eye-to-chin due to the fact that he only stood at around five-eight and John was probably just shy of six feet- but held his gaze nonetheless. A moment of thick tension passed between the two, John peering at Mick down his nose with dismissive authority, Mick squinting up at John with that cocksure grin and those wild, sparkling eyes, pupils so enlarged his eyes almost looked entirely black rather than blue.

 

“Come on lads.” He smiled, still staring at John, but nodding for his mates to rise from the bench, which they did, wordlessly. “Let’s get inside. Cold out here.”

 

The other boys were quick to follow their leader, gathering up their jackets and their crate of beers, moving back towards John’s house like a seamless, shapeless blob of shaggy hair and spotty skin. Mick was the last, still locked in his spot opposite John until he finally gave up their little staring contest and turned around to shoot Paul a cheeky wink.

 

“Good meeting you, Paul.”

 

“Nice meeting you too, Mick.”

 

“What did he give ya?” Was the first question on John’s lips as he glared after Mick’s disappearing slender form, narrow hips swinging side to side as he trotted confidently back inside the house to be met with a cheer from the adoring masses. Paul huffed at John’s hostility ruining his nice little haven and rolled his eyes.

 

“It was just a bit of sniff, John, nothing special. Not that I have to explain myself to you.”

 

“You oughta be more careful, s’all.” John replied, flopping down next to Paul on the bench, close enough that their knees touched, despite the fact that Paul had scooted all the way to the edge as soon as the others had left. “Mick and his mates, they run with a pretty hardcore crowd-”

 

“-save me the lecture, John.” Paul rolled his eyes. “Go back inside and tell someone who gives a fuck. _Cynthia,_ maybe?”

 

“Paul, look-”

 

“-Save it.” Paul couldn’t be bothered to hear John’s excuses. For the first time all evening, he hadn’t actually been thinking about John at all- sitting outside with Mick and his friends, getting high and swapping silly half-true stories. In all honestly, he couldn’t really remember exactly what they’d been talking about despite the fact it was only minutes ago, but he’d certainly been enjoying himself royally before John showed up and reminded him of his _disastrous_ attempt at romance. John had ruined enough of his night. All Paul cared about now was drinking himself silly, having George drag him home, and forgetting the whole dreadful affair come morning.

 

There’d be other parties. There’d even be other blokes, Paul supposed. Life didn’t _end_ with this _John Lennon_ , some prick he’d only just met. The world would keep on spinning without him.

 

Paul got up to stand and John followed him all the way over to the door, pulling him back around the corner and into the dark garden. Even the touch of John’s hand on his skin was fucking electric- and Paul’s heart stuttered. Maybe it was just the coke.

 

(He hoped it was just the coke.)

 

“Look, No offence John, you seem alright, but fuck off- yeah?” he shrugged off John’s touch with a slightly aggressive edge, stepping back and avoiding John’s eye completely. It didn’t matter that the moment their skin-to-skin connection severed, Paul ached to feel John’s touch again. It didn’t mean anything at all- not if Paul wouldn’t let it.

 

“Oi! What’s changed your tune?”

 

“I’m not gonna be some… some _bit on the side_ for you to piss off your girlfriend, John. You can get that out of your head right now, okay?”

 

“ _What_?” John spluttered. Paul narrowed his eyes.

 

“I _saw_ you with her. _Cynthia_ , right? She’s your bird, isn’t she?”

 

“Well…” John looked as if he was considering lying, for a second, but the flat, bitter glare in Paul’s eye warned him better. “Yeah,” he admitted with a small sigh. “She is, but-”

 

 

“No _buts_ , John. You can’t just use me to get at her. Piss her off because you’re having it off with a lad right in front of her- I fucking _know_ blokes like you John!” Paul was yelling now. He wasn’t sure when he’d started yelling, but John’s anxious glance back towards to party told him all he needed to know. He stopped for a small, shaking breath, and lowered his voice. He wouldn’t cause a scene. He wouldn’t let himself be embarrassed, not _again_.

 

 

“ _Paul-_ ” John’s voice was softer now, and he crept forwards just slightly, but Paul wasn’t having it, not for a second. He darted backwards like a startled animal, ignoring John’s stupid brown puppy-eyes, and gripped his fists by his sides.

 

 

“I’ve gotten myself hurt chasing after blokes like you before, John. I won’t do it again.” He said quietly, looking up just in time to see John’s deep-set frown.

 

 

“You think _that’s_ why I came onto you? To get at Cyn?”

 

 

“Well,” Paul blushed. “Why else?”

 

 

“Might be hard to imagine, but maybe it’s because I like ya, you _twat_.”

 

 

“Oh,” Paul groaned, rolling his eyes. “Fucking pull the other one John, it’s got bells on-”

 

 

“I _do_!”

 

 

“You don’t even _know_ me!”

 

 

“You’re _clueless_ , son.” John laughed. He had the audacity to _laugh_ , and Paul was outraged.

 

 

He fumed, “How?”, but John just kept on smiling at him, kept on looking at him like _that_ , like he _cared_ , and it made his insides go all funny. He’d only had a couple swigs of vodka and two beers, half a joint and a bit of coke- but Paul could feel the drugs in his head and the alcohol in his stomach, reacting violently against _that look_. John’s expression had gone all soft and _fuck_ if he wasn’t _gorgeous_.

 

 

(Paul hated him.)

 

 

“Paul, you moron,” he said quietly, reaching forwards and taking one of Paul’s hands into his own. “I’ve only been trying to meet ya for months.”

 

 

“ _What_?” Paul spluttered. He was confused before. John made him feel quite confused in general. Now, however, he was completely _gobsmacked_.

 

 

“God, I knew you were pretty, but I didn’t think you’d be _thick,_ ” John said with a teasing laugh, squeezing his hand gently. _“_ Why do you think Ivan harassed you to come to this party? I begged him to invite ya. I’ve been trying to get him to introduce us for ages, but every time you ended up being busy or going somewhere else.”

 

 

“But how- I mean…” Paul couldn’t get his words out- a strange experience, considering how articulate he prided himself on being. But no- it was impossible to be articulate, barely possible to even be _literate_ with John looking at him _like that_ , holding his hand. Paul’s brain was on fire, thinking back to all the seemingly insignificant times over the last few months that Ivan had mentioned _John Lennon_ \- little comments about his poetry, his taste in music, his guitar playing. Paul hadn’t given it any mind at the time, but now, he supposed, stringing it all together, maybe it had meant something.  “Had you, like, seen me before, or?”

 

 

“Yeah.” It was John’s turn to feel the pressure now, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he avoided Paul’s eye, squinting and scratching at the back of his head. “I- uh… I saw you about… six months ago, I think it was. At the cavern, dancing. Having a fucking whale of a time, moving like a pro- it was bloody… _mesmerising_. But… I was with Cyn and I was… well, not in a good state, so I didn’t approach ya. After, Ivan told me he was your mate from that fancy grammar school. Figured you’d be too clever for me, a washed-up art student who failed all his exams, but… I figured I’d have a go.”

 

 

“And you liked me… all this time?” Paul was still dumbfounded. This was _John fucking Lennon_. He wasn’t a _washed-up_ Art-school twat. He was a _real artist_ \- he’d done _commissions_ , Ivan had said! What the hell was he doing lusting after _Paul,_ of all people _?_ Of all the doe-eyed little pricks in the world, why did John want to risk everything for a quick go on _him?_ “Just after seeing me once, at the Cavern?”

 

 

“Well, I liked the look of you, obviously. And then… well, we just met now and I don’t know about you but- I felt… something, you know? A connection. Feels like I’ve known ya all my life.” He said the last part with a nervous laugh, taking a pause before daring to move closer, fingers still curled around Paul’s, that same static electricity buzzing through them. Paul couldn’t help but nod in agreement, despite every fibre of moral standing screaming at him to pull away and run back into the house as fast as he could. John moved closer, still, dipping his head towards Paul’s, and suddenly, it became even harder to imagine pulling himself away.

 

 

“I…” Paul knew, in that moment, he was lost. He was back on the hook, and Lennon was reeling him in at an almighty speed. “You’ve got a girlfriend John. It isn’t right.”

 

 

John gave a flippant shrug. “Lots of things aren’t right.” He said. “Never stopped me before.”

 

 

“ _John_.”

 

 

“Come on, Macca.” John’s voice was low and as supple as velvet, so close that Paul could feel his beery breath tickling against his lips. “Live a little, ay?”

 

 

There wasn’t going to be any further convincing after that. Paul would have to just blame it on the drink, or maybe the drugs, because suddenly he was kissing John _fucking_ Lennon, all hot and wet and desperate, letting John move their intertwined fingers to his hips and give a squeeze as the other reached up, carding through Paul’s hair and tipping his head back so he had no choice but to open his mouth, let John’s tongue swim its way right down his gob, sliding against his all heavy and ash-tasting. By the time they pulled apart, Paul’s mouth felt almost swollen, covered in saliva that could’ve belonged to either of them, he didn’t care, not with the way his heart was hammering against his chest, John’s forehead resting against his forehead, brown eyes baring into his fucking soul.

 

 

“Tell me you feel it too,” John all but begged, chest heaving. “Fuck, Paul… tell me you felt it-”

 

 

“I-I do. I did.” Paul stuttered. “I feel it- I… I want-”

 

 

“-I want it too.”

 

 

“But we can’t, I mean- we shouldn’t.”

 

 

“There are a lot of things in life we probably shouldn’t do- and I’d know, cause I’ve done ‘em all.” John laughed, kissing him again chastely, but even that brief brush of lips had Paul chasing his touch like a lovesick school-girl. “-And this doesn’t feel like one of them to me.”

 

“I hardly even know you, but I already hate it when you’re right.” Paul shook his head with a grin, turning his face away as John pressed kisses into his cheek and his jaw, teeth teasing over the light stubble at his chin.

 

“Come on, love.” John pleaded, subtly walking them back in the direction of the house as he sucked a little red mark into the underside of Paul’s jaw, their tryst still concealed by the shadows of the shrubbery. “Come upstairs?”

 

“What if someone sees?” Paul asked, pulling away from John briefly enough to turn, eyeing the party inside. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to them at all, only a few stragglers hanging around in the kitchen, talking amongst themselves. John hardly seemed to care about being seen, teeth exploring the side of Paul’s face until they found his ear, nibbling at the lobe and sending a red-hot shock down from the back of his neck to the tip his cock. He was already getting hard, which wasn’t a good sign if he wanted to exercise any kind of restraint. Certainly, now, there was no turning back for either of them.

 

“Just follow my lead.” John muttered into his ear, dropping one last kiss to the skin before detangling himself from Paul all together. He nodded silently for Paul to follow on behind him, and with easy-going swagger and confidence, bowled back into the house. John didn’t make eye contact with a single person in the kitchen, just headed straight through, Paul following sheepishly behind with his eyes low and his fists shoved into his trouser pockets, hoping to God that nobody was a lick sober enough to pay much mind to their dishevelled clothes or the love-bite that was quickly blossoming at his neck.

 

“Hey John-”

 

“-Give me a second.” John’s voice was clearly distracted as he ignored the person calling his name from the hallway and swung his way around the banister, climbing the stairs. Nobody gave him a second look- it was his house after all- and by the time Paul came past, only one or two paces behind, they’d already turned back to their conversations, unbothered. By some unbeknownst miracle, it actually seemed as if they were _getting away with it_ \- and Paul couldn’t help but grin smugly to himself when John took his hand again, tugging him into the nearest room and closing the door behind them.

 

It was certainly _John’s_ room- but Paul didn’t have a chance to admire the stack of vinyl’s nor the giant rose-coloured glass bong sitting on the bedside table because John’s lips were against his again, drawing him back into this magical new-world where there wasn’t a party full of delinquent teenagers ingesting questionable substances downstairs, John didn’t have a girlfriend and Paul wasn’t honest-to-God maybe falling in love with him, then and there in that tiny little teenage bedroom, John’s fingers working their way underneath his shirt, grabbing at his skin in handfuls, panting against his neck “- _do you want this_?” as Paul nodded desperately, more desperate than he’d ever felt before, and he told John so- told John that he could take whatever the hell he wanted, as long as he _didn’t stop_ anytime soon.

 

By the time they were both naked and John was working his magic hands across every inch of Paul’s skin, he knew that he was completely lost. It might have been the coke fucking with his sense of time again, but Paul wasn’t sure if he’d come first- if John had come first or if maybe, by some miracle, they’d done so at the same time. All he knew for sure was that this wasn’t like a regular fumble between the sheets with some random stranger. There was an energy between them- a connection that he’d never quite felt before, and when John stood up, naked, and padded across the room to fish a tightly wrapped joint out of his sock-draw, Paul felt downright _foolish_ \- because the second John’s skin separated from his, he missed his touch, and was desperate to feel him again.

 

They sat up slightly against John’s puffy pillows, John’s arm tucked around the back of Paul’s head and a plastic ashtray balanced between them, resting on John’s abdomen. The bedsheets were more or less abandoned at the foot of the bed to compensate for the sweaty heat radiating around them, but Paul wasn’t embarrassed to be naked. It felt as if John had seen more of him here than anyone else ever had.

 

“That’s bad-ass.” He said, feeling like he had to say _something_ after the minutes of silence (silence that should’ve been awkward, for God’s sake, but instead was undeniably _comfortable_ ) passed on between them without marker.

 

“Hm?”

 

“That poster.” Paul nodded to the wall where a blown-up Bowie mugshot stared back at him, right between a framed vintage concert poster for _The Jimi Hendrix Experience_ , all swirling and psychedelic, tucked neatly behind a glass frame and a faded Chuck Berry wall calendar with messy ink scratches over most of the days. “Bowie. Legend.”

 

“I think my auntie knew I was up to something unsavoury when I stuck that up right at the foot of my bed.” John laughed through the smoke, voice sounding all gravelly and high and _satisfied_. It was like sex in waveform, and Paul knew he’d happily get used to the sound if given half a chance. “Wanked myself off silly when I was thirteen every night locking eyes with old Dave.”

 

“Couldn’t you just use the internet like a normal kid?” Paul laughed, cuddling closer as John handed him the joint, smoke curling between them. John shrugged, and with the arm stretched across Paul’s back, he tickled his shoulder gently, fondly, _intimately_. Was it possible to be _intimate_ with someone you’d only just met? Paul never would’ve thought so before- but here they were, all pink and naked, passing a joint back and forth whilst making (seemingly) menial conversation.

 

“I’m authentic, I suppose. Even with wanking material. Don’t see harm in doing it the old-fashioned way.”

 

“There’s something poetic there.”

 

“Wanking pre-pubescents? It’s one hell of an image.”

 

They both giggled at that, and Paul didn’t know if it was just because of the weed or because they just seemed to _get_ each other. He liked John’s razor-sharp wit and recognised his brash, aggressive sniping as what it truly was- nothing more than a short stab at wry humour. Likewise, John didn’t seem infuriated at his drawling sarcasm as most often did, even George. John wouldn’t let himself be intimidated by Paul’s eye-rolls and curt laughter. He just took it all in and gave back as good as he got.

 

Paul was pulled from his thoughts by a sudden weight bouncing on the bed, startling him. For a second, he thought it’d all come crashing down and they’d been caught in the act- but he was quickly proved wrong- instead laying eyes on a pure-white cat (save for four adorable inky-black paws) purring and cautious as it crept over his chest and nosed at his face, whiskers twitching curiously, exploring its new environment. Paul handed the joint back over to John and smiled, reaching up to rub at the cats funny little frowning face, earning himself a deep purr for his troubles.

 

“Shit, sorry. Shoo him away if he’s annoying you.”

 

“Ha, he’s alright.” Paul scratched at the cat’s chin, smiling as he felt paws kneading into his bare chest. “Hi kitty.”

 

“That’s _Elvis_.” John reached forwards to stroke along the cat’s back and tail, but _Elvis_ seemed far more interested in this new, foreign visitor, and butted his head against Paul’s chin. “I kept him up here… he doesn’t like noise. Doesn’t like people, usually.”

 

Paul looked across at John, eyes glittering as _Elvis_ settled comfortably on his chest, curling himself into a neat little white ball. “I’m not just people, though, am I?” it was supposed to be a throwaway tease, but Paul felt his own insecurities, rearing their ugly little faces through the guise of shallow flirting, and didn’t realise he was holding his breath until John replied.

 

“No, you really aren’t.”

 

Paul let out the breath he was holding and smiled. John hadn’t brushed him off, hadn’t laughed- he just shifted closer, leaning up on his arm to look over Paul, gaze trailing from his chest up to his face, settling on his eyes, unblinking.

 

“ _John_!” a shout from downstairs interrupted their moment, and John groaned, dragging himself away and forcing himself out of bed. Paul watched as he fumbled around on the floor for his underwear and his jeans, and gently brushed Elvis away.

 

“That can’t be good.” He said, after a loud crash rang through the house, followed by another, significantly more frantic, call of John’s name.

 

“What time is it?” John squinted as he checked his phone, buttoning up his jeans with one hand. He looked fucking delectable- all shirtless and sweaty with his hair a mess and Paul’s marks littering his chest and shoulders, but now was hardly the time to suggest another round. They’d been lucky enough not to be caught this first time. “Fuck, one-thirty. I say it’s time I cleared these bastards out, don’t you?”

 

“Probably.” Paul agreed, standing up from the bed and slipping on his own boxers whilst John got back into his t-shirt. He ruffled at his fringe in a half-hearted attempt to look as if he _hadn’t_ just had his brain shagged out by the host, but it didn’t help much.

 

“Hey-” John stilled, turning back to face Paul just in time to spot him gathering up his own clothes. “You don’t have to leave you know,” he seemed a little shy, a little sheepish, which was a completely foreign concept to Paul considering how they’d just spent the last forty minutes or so. “You- I mean I’d… I’d love it if you stayed.”

 

Paul smiled, zipping up the fly of his jeans. “Of course I’ll stay. I just want to check on George, s’all. You head down, I’ll follow a little while after. Avoid suspicion and that, yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” John said. If he was trying to _play it cool_ , it wasn’t working. Paul could see his grin the minute he turned his back, reflected off the tiny mirror stuck to his wardrobe. He was _pleased_ , and more than that, whatever barmy, magical feeling Paul had felt between them- _John felt it too_. That was all the reassurance he needed, for now.

 

John still had a girlfriend, sure. Paul had still broken his rule about sleeping with boys who had girlfriends, yeah. But those were problems for _Morning Paul_. Right-now Paul had the tail end of the joint John had left in the ashtray to soothe him to sleep. _Morning Paul_ could deal with the fucking hangover.

 

* * *

 

 

 

As John got himself busy filtering through the dwindling party-goers, kicking everyone out and dealing with any immediate spillages, Paul wandered into the living room with hope that George would still be there. However, the room was abandoned, with nothing but the strong lingering smell of weed and a full ashtray to remind him that they’d even been there at all. Figuring John would need a head-start on clean-up the following morning before his parents returned, Paul cracked open the window and drew back the curtains with hope of airing out the room a little over night, before gathering up the ashtray and the empty beer cans. He walked it all back into the kitchen, dumping it in the makeshift bin-bag as the last few standing said their goodbyes to John and wandered out into the night.

 

“I think this is yours.” A voice said, and Paul looked up to spot a red-eyed, tired looking Ringo, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a soft smile on his face and a body slung over his shoulder. Paul couldn’t help but laugh. At least George didn’t weigh much, looking like little more than a sack of potatoes, draped over his new friend.

 

 “Oh God. How much did he have?” came John’s voice, entering the kitchen just behind them with an amused smirk and another lit joint in his mouth, which he didn’t hesitate in passing over to Ringo. Paul didn’t want to imagine what kind of night he’d ended up having, but he looked like he needed to sleep for a week or maybe more.

 

“Maybe too much. Where d’you want him?”

 

Paul looked at John, which was a mistake, because the moment they caught eyes, he couldn’t stop the slow spreading grin from taking over his face, uncaring that Ringo was right there in the room, watching them.

 

“Sofa should be fine, Ritchie.” He said, giggling like a fucking _bird_ as John shot him a dirty wink. “We’ll just have to crash here.”


	2. part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Last night is the night I will remember you by_   
>  _When I think of things we did, it makes me wanna cry_   
>  _[...] Treat me like you did the night before?_

_Part two_

 

 

Light was his enemy.

 

Light was _bad_ \- clearly he’d forgotten to close the damn curtains before passing out, so Paul was sadly awoken by a piercing, invading light forcing its way right through his closed eyelids, making the throbbing in his head ache just a little worse. Paul knew he was hungover, that was normal enough for a Sunday morning, but then- there was something _else_.

 

A few things weren’t quite usual for a McCartney Sunday morning. He couldn’t hear his dad whistling along to old jazz records as he fried up a grease-soaked breakfast downstairs for his boys. He couldn’t hear Mike’s window-rattling snoring through the paper-thin bedroom wall they shared. Also (and this was certainly the most telling factor that this morning was not quite like any other) there was something _hard_ and _stiff_ poking him right in the arse along with a light purring in his ear, something thin and wispy tickling at his face.

 

Paul opened his eyes and squinted, suddenly eye-to-chin with lovely _Elvis_ , pawing around at the head of the bed, rubbing up against his forehead. He was still at John’s- and clearly the drug-induced dreams of a sexually-charged night hadn’t been dreams at all, because John was still there beside him, arms around Paul’s waist, stiffy poking him in the backside.

 

John was fast asleep and _cuddling_ him. Paul had never felt so fucking content in all his life.

 

John also had some serious _raging_ morning wood- but Paul wasn’t in any kind of mood to complain about that. It actually made him feel a little smug, and he grinned to himself before rolling over, worming his way out of John’s death-grip, and stretched out his tired, aching limbs.

 

Sitting up slightly, he gave Elvis a little scratch between the ears, and the cat purred back at him, stretching his tail out above Paul’s head, tickling his nose. Then, as John began to stir, he crawled over to his owner, sniffing at his forehead before placing a hesitant paw over his chest, hopping over him to curl up in his own comfy spot on the other side of the bed.

 

“Hmm…” John moaned to himself, rolling over onto his back, voice nothing more than a hoarse mumble. “What time’s it?”

 

Paul reached across to the nightstand where his phone had been abandoned, camera-end resting in the overfilled ashtray. No wonder he was feeling so spaced-out and smiley still. Between the end of the party and five am when they’d actually drifted off to sleep, they’d shared at least three more joints from John’s private stash. He still felt a little high- even now- having to concentrate for a few seconds before his eyes focused on the phone screen.

 

“Ten.” He told John, who whined in response, before reaching forwards to wrap his arms around Paul’s middle, pulling him back down into the soft mattress.

 

“Too early to get up then.” John drawled with a slight smirk in his voice as he manhandled Paul back into a spooning position, breath tickling the back of his neck as his arms wrapped tighter around Paul’s waist, hovering dangerously close to his crotch. “May as well sleep in a little longer.”

 

“Sure sleeping in’s all you’re after?” Paul laughed, wiggling his hips against John’s hard-on. He still felt smug. A little high- but definitely smug, and so easily _comfortable_ in John’s presence. This was the only explanation for his sudden surge in confidence- Paul had never acted like this with another boy before.

 

“Hm, you noticed that then?” John’s voice was as thick as gravel, sleepy and ludicrously sexy as he hummed against Paul’s skin, teeth nipping at his neck. He pulled Paul closer, more obvious in his sordid intentions now as he rubbed himself up against Paul’s backside.

 

“It was poking me in the arse when I woke up, but _thanks_. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

 

“You should.” John turned him over with a wry grin, forcing Paul onto his back and swimming into his personal space, so close that he didn’t need to squint without his glasses on, eyes hooded, noses brushing against each other. “’cause it is _definitely_ all for you, kid.”

Paul took the initiative and reached up to pull John’s face into his, parting his lips and letting him in for a tender kiss. There were strong, beautiful hands running down from his chest to his waist before settling on the outside of his thighs, gently nudging them apart so there was space between for John to fit. Paul hesitated then. He was briefly stunned just by the feeling of John resting against him, making a comfortable home for himself between Paul’s parted legs. They’d certainly had a good fumble last night, but things hadn’t gone _this_ far. Paul might’ve thrown caution to the wind, just a little under the guise of alcohol, but he still didn’t _fuck_ on the first night, and he certainly wouldn’t be doing so on the morning after either-

 

(no matter how much he was _really_ starting to want to)

 

-“God, you’re _gorgeous_.” John broke away from their kiss to groan into his ear, voice reverbing through every nerve in his body- and before Paul could think up something worthwhile in response, John was kissing against his cheek and then his neck, and then all the way down to his chest, lips fixing over his little pebbled pink nipples, making Paul keen and arch beneath him. God- Paul didn’t _fuck_ on the first night, but John was certainly making him reconsider his rules, albeit only for a few seconds before he was tangling his fingers in soft, golden hair and dragging John’s mouth back up to meet his instead, desperate to regain a little scrap of self-control but still very, very tempted to just let John have him, right there and then.

 

And he might’ve changed his mind, that is, if the door hadn’t suddenly creaked open, and a little voice startled them both out of their ministrations with a tired, surprised “ _oh-_ ”

 

Both John and Paul stopped kissing and turned, completely in sync, to spot little George Harrison, all bundled up in a tartan blanket with his eyes rimmed red and half-closed, hair standing up at all ends, frozen in the doorway.

 

“Sorry… I…” he frowned, squinting as the light from the open curtains hit across his face. “Didn’t mean to interrupt I… I just woke up on a sofa and didn’t really know where I was.”

 

“We… uh… we stayed at John’s.”

 

“Yeah. I can kind of see that, actually.”

 

Throughout the screaming awkwardness, John was, of course, the first to grin, hands still splayed across Paul’s hips, squeezing at his sides.

 

“Morning Georgie-boy.” He said, cheerfully. “Good kip?”

 

“Yeah… not bad thanks…” George was still frowning, likely trying to decide if he was actually awake or if this was all just a very startling , very strange sex-dream. “I’m probably going to, uh… head back downstairs now. Let you… get on with it.”

 

“Probably for the best.” John smirked, and Paul felt his cheeks flame red as he watched his best friend stiffly back out of the room, closing the door behind him, almost catching Elvis’ tail as the cat darted out too, probably desperate for a touch of fresh air after spending the night cooped up in John’s musty bedroom.

 

“Well that was a shock.” John laughed, turning back to Paul as the door clicked shut, only to find him hiding his blushing face in the nearest pillow. “Bless him. Looked a right mess, didn’t he?”

 

“God, can we not? Can we actually just never mention this again? Like, _ever_.”

 

“I wont if you don’t.” John leant down, rubbing his nose over Paul’s playfully, hard-on still pressing against his hip. “Back to business?”

 

Paul bit his lip, lifting the pillow to look John in the eyes as his blush eventually paled, if only slightly.

 

“I suppose I don’t see why not.”

 

“ _Fab_.” John breathed, and then it was nothing more than a quick, messy rut until they were both spilling all over each other, ruining their boxers and the bedsheets, panting and grinning and _satisfied_ \- John rolling off Paul with a pleased sigh, skin flushed from his cheeks to his chest.

 

“Totally worth the embarrassment.” Paul grinned, reaching down below the bed for a previously discarded piece of clothing, either his or Johns, he didn’t care, to clean himself up with as he wriggled out of his soiled underwear. “But we should probably go and check on George now. His hangover ought to be pretty severe, and we might have just pushed him over the edge.”

 

“Five more minutes?”

 

“Come _on_.” Paul laughed, giving John a light shove before forcibly dragging himself up and out of the bed, delving into John’s drawer for a fresh pair of boxers. It was weird- it didn’t feel like the awkward morning after a one-night stand. Waking up with John, Paul felt just as comfortable as he would waking up after a sleepover at George’s- helping himself to some underwear and a discarded, soft-looking hoodie before bouncing back onto the bed, legs slung over either side of John’s hips, shaking him by the shoulders. Okay, so maybe not like waking up at George’s- but it was the same sense of comfortable familiarity that settled around them, which was strange, considering they’d only just met the night before. “I’m sure Elvis needs feeding or something. And somebody’s got to take care of that _mess_ downstairs.”

 

“Don’t remind me.” John groaned, reaching blindly to the floor for his glasses, thick black spectacles with lenses as thick as glass milk-bottles. Paul vaguely remembered John mentioning something in the middle of a weed-soaked ramble about hating his glasses and the way they looked, hence why he always wore contacts. However, seeing them now in the sober light of day, sat just perfectly on the arch of his sharp, roman nose, Paul thought they were fucking _beautiful_. Or maybe it wasn’t the glasses. Maybe it was just _John_.

 

“Come ‘head then.” Paul said softly, swiping his thumb over John’s cheek in a way that was probably too weird, too _intimate_ for two boys who were more or less strangers. “Let’s go and survey the damage.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Both Paul and George were more than grateful for John’s offer of a morning ciggie and a cup of tea, tucking themselves in at the kitchen table with an ashtray between them and two ornate china cups. It was fine, for a few seconds, with John as their buffer- but then he disappeared off into the kitchen to give Elvis his long-awaited meal, and a painful, awkward silence fell over the shiny wooden table.

 

George wouldn’t meet his eye, of course, painfully allergic to such situations, but he was the first to speak, cheeks tinged pink as he stared into his teacup like an old gypsy fortune teller.

 

“D’you… uh… d’you wanna talk about-”

 

“-Not even for a second.” Paul cut in before he had the chance to say it out loud, and finally, George met his eye. After a tense few seconds of uninterrupted staring, they dissolved into giggles like a pair of schoolboys, laughing wickedly and choking on cigarette smoke. John joined them just a few minutes later with a fag of his own, unlit between his lovely thin lips, and gave the pair of them an odd look.

 

“What’s so funny?”

 

“Nothing.” Paul smiled as John took the seat beside his at the table and reached over to cup his thigh and scoot closer, until he’d pulled Paul’s right leg just over his own. “Nothing at all.”

 

John rolled his eyes, but in an uncharacteristically un-stubborn display, let it go without argument. “How are you then, Georgie?” he asked instead. “Hangover settled in?”

 

“This tea is reviving me slowly.” George replied, taking another grateful sip, before grimacing. “But don’t call me _Georgie.”_

_“_ He _hates_ Georgie-” Paul offered, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. “-thinks it makes him sound like a kid.”

 

“It _does_ make me sound like a kid! I’m the same age as you, for christ’s sake.”

 

“Almost a whole year younger.”

 

“ _Barely_ eight months!”

 

“Let it go, George. You know you’re my favourite little brother.” He grinned, reaching across the table to smack George upside the head, earning a dull groan in response. “I like you better than Mike, promise.”

 

George frowned, rubbing at his sore head. “Funny way of showing it,” he grumbled. “I hope Mike doesn’t get this same treatment when he starts getting hangovers.”

 

“You must be sore.” John winced just looking at George; all skin-and-bones, sunken eyes and dry mouth. He was clutching onto his tea for dear life, free hand drumming against the table, likely antsy for another cigarette. “Ringo had to literally carry you off to bed, I’m surprised he didn’t have his way with ya while he was at it.”

 

George’s skin lit up in a burning red, and he avoided John’s eye. John didn’t take much notice, too amused by his own dry, dirty attempt at humour but Paul certainly did. He decided not to bring it up- not yet. He’d save that little observation for later.

 

“I might’ve smoked a little more than I usually do.” George said slowly, careful in the words he strung together, face still aflame. “No big deal.”

 

“You better not have puked on my carpet, that’s all I’m saying.”

 

“Oi!” George exclaimed, but before they had a chance to laugh, the district sound keys jingling from just outside, followed by the plastic-sounding turning of a porch door handle startled the three of them. Notably John, who let go of Paul’s leg and leapt to his feet, face awash with panic as the other two sat at the table, unsure whether to look at John or the door or each other.

 

“Shit, John!” Paul bit his lip, looking around at the state of the room, the smell of smoke still heavy in the air and their grubby tea-stains on the wood of the table from where they’d so carelessly passed up on using coasters. “Is it your mam and dad?”

 

“Not bloody likely.” John scoffed, but his eyes remained fixed on the entrance to the hallway as they heard the door-lock slowly turn, followed by the sound of heavy, boot-like footsteps. “Oh, shite.” He muttered to himself as the handle of the dining room door turned, and they all held their breaths.

 

“Alright lads?” Asked Ringo, a pair of keys jangling around his thumb and three full-looking paper-bags from McDonald’s clutched in his arms.

 

“Christ, Ritch, I nearly had a heart attack!” John exclaimed, throwing his hand the centre of his chest dramatically, staggering back and falling into his chair as Ringo sauntered into the room, seemingly unaware to the brief trauma he’d brought on the three of them. “I thought Mimi had come home early!”

 

Ringo let out a chuckle, shedding his boots and his jacket before ditching the food on the table between them. “Sorry,” he said. “Figured you might still be asleep, so I used the spare key under the mat. I brought ya’s some breakfast, figured you’d need something greasy.”

 

“God, I love you.” George’s mouth was practically watering, and unlike Paul, he had no care for such a futile gesture as _politeness_. He reached forwards and swiped at the food like a ravenous animal, tearing into the carboard bags and sinking his razor-sharp teeth into a hash brown and a handful of chips within five seconds flat.

 

“I know, son.” Ringo laughed, ruffling his hair before reaching in to nick a chip for himself, only a little wary of George’s razor sharp teeth shedding a limb. “You told me last night. Five times. Maybe even six.”

 

George didn’t answer, but Paul spotted the same blush on his cheeks from when John had poked fun at him earlier. So, it seemed that his _Georgie_ had a little crush, which was sweet. George didn’t tend to show interest in anyone, male nor female. Paul had sort of given up on trying to set him up with other random teenagers, because usually George just scared them off with his stand-offish demeanour and his blank, soul-searching stares. This was a side to George he hadn’t seen in ten years of friendship- blushing and _shy_ , like a keen bird.

 

“Tuck in then.” Ringo settled into the fourth seat at the table, and John and Paul didn’t need much more encouragement, scooting as close together physically possible on two dining chairs, tucking into their disgusting, grease-soaked breakfast. Paul hadn’t realised until then just how ravenous he was- he’d picked at half a roast dinner at George’s house before they’d left for the party, but hadn’t been particularly hungry at the time. He’d been nervous- this was their big chance to make it with the older, _‘cool’_ crowd. Paul was worried George would blow it for them. How fucking _wrong_ he’d been with that assumption.

 

“Hope you enjoyed your one and only Lennon spectacular.” John mumbled through a mouthful of _McMuffin_ , shooting Paul a bread-stuffed grin, earning an eyeroll in response. “I’m not throwing another one. Look at the state of this gaff.”

 

“Remind me to never have a party.” George mumbled, looking around at the room. He wasn’t wrong, there was empty glasses littering the room, fag butts tossed around carelessly and a few abandoned jackets and an honest-to-god sock, for which Paul could find no logical explanation.

 

“Had a laugh though.” Ringo added. “And nobody got up on the roof this time.”

 

“Someone got up on the roof?” George’s eyes widened.

 

“Ancient history, right Ritch?”

 

“Right John.”

 

“And Alex recovered.” Paul nodded along, catching a surprised raise of the eyebrow from Ringo, across the table, which he struggled to ignore. George he could easily talk his way around, but _Ringo-_ Ringo had seen him and John together last night, all flirty and giggling. Ringo, unlike George, also knew all about John’s _girlfriend_. For all Paul knew, he was _mates_ with her, and likely wouldn’t approve of what they’d done together. The guilt sunk in his stomach along with his fat-soaked breakfast, the two swirling together to create an uncomfortable mix. Subconsciously, he scooted away from John slightly, but it went unnoticed in the swarm of conversation. John was telling some animated story about something Ivan had done last night, complete with wild hand gestures and sound effects. George and Ringo seemed enthralled, but Paul was already lost. He didn’t want to think about last night anymore- it would only spoil the memory of what they’d done together. But it wasn’t nice to think about the reality of their future together- or complete lack thereof.

 

“Well, anyway.” Ringo slapped at his thighs, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand before rising from his seat, George’s dark eyes following him all the way. “I should be heading off. Just thought I’d pop in and make sure you survived the night.” He shot George a wink, earning himself another blush.

 

“Not bloody likely.” John leapt forwards and snatched Ringo’s car keys off the table, holding them back way above his head, far out of his reach. “Have you seen the state of it? No way son, scrub up and grab a broom- this place has got to be ship shape before Mimi comes back, otherwise she’ll have my bollocks for paperweights.”

 

Ringo rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother arguing, and returned to his seat with a reluctant sigh. Apparently he knew far better than to argue with John Lennon. Paul suspected he was quite used to having things his own way.

 

“Who’s Mimi then, John?” George asked, picking at the remaining carcass of his meal.

 

“My aunty. Live here with her, she’s been away for the weekend.”

 

It explained a lot. The décor made the house, much like John himself, seem stuck in the past- right down to the little details of ceramic ashtrays littered around every room and John’s willingness to just light up a cigarette whether he was inside or out, lacey doilies draped over the coffee table and old, goose-stuffed pillows with embroidered flowers, faded photographs and porcelain statues standing proud from within the glass cabinets. Either John’s parents were quite a lot older than his da’, or he lived with another family member. It didn’t take a detective to deduce.

 

George, unlike Paul, didn’t care to keep his observations to himself.

 

“Explains all this old lady shite I guess.” He shrugged. “Why’d you live with her and not your parents?”

 

“Oi! Don’t pry.” Paul scolded, but John waved him off with a tiny smile, and under the table, squeezed his thigh again.

 

“It’s fine.” He shook his head. “Not a particularly original story- Dad was no good, haven’t heard much from him since I was a tot and mum…” he paused, taking in a breath and fixing his gaze on the table. “She’s… gone. Has been for a while.”

 

“Oh… Sorry.” George mumbled.

 

“It’s alright.” John shrugged. “You weren’t to know.”

 

Above the table, uncaring of the other two watching, Paul reached across and wrapped his hand into John’s, squeezing lightly. Once again, fate had proved him otherwise in thinking he’d be able to stay away for long. They were just too fucking intertwined-  and not just in the physical sense. It was becoming a joke.

 

“Mine too.” He said, filling the uncomfortable silence that had settled on the table. “My mam. Went when I was fourteen. Cancer. Ghastly thing.”

 

“Car accident.” John replied, but he didn’t avoid Paul’s eye, not even for a second. “Two years ago now.”

 

Looking into John’s eyes, Paul knew exactly how he felt. Despite it all, they both smiled.

 

“Well,” John finally dragged his eyes away from Pauls, and grinned at the other two. “Getting a bit depressing in’t it? How about we put on some decent fucking rock n’ roll and have a pop at cleaning this place up a bit?”

 

Ringo rubbed his hands together and smiled, rings clinking against each other. “Sounds like a plan, Johnny-boy. Fetch us a broom?”

 

Paul had never cared much for cleaning, but after losing his mam and putting the pieces of his da’ back together, he and Mike had to learn certain skills the hard way. Paul knew how to cook and keep a clean house. He was more than comfortable rifling through John’s Aunt Mimi’s cupboards, swilling bleach around in a bucket with some water and working his elbow grease into every surface, before dragging a mop over the wooden floors wherever he spotted a particularly suspicious stain. George was far less helpful, so they demoted him to _dusting_ , and he seemed content enough to trail around the room behind Ringo, brandishing a bright blue feather duster and humming along to Chuck Berry’s _Roll Over Beethoven_. Every so often, he’d abandon his task and use the duster as a make-shift guitar, fingers dancing over the imaginary strings in perfect chord pattern.

 

“Chuck Berry, _my hero_.” John’s guttural moan only reminded Paul of the night before as the vocal kicked in, scrubbing a stubborn stain out of the hanging drapes. “- _I gotta hear it again today._ ”

 

“ _You know my temperatures’ rising, The jukebox’s blowin’ a fuse!”_ Paul joined in, and when John’s eyes met his across the room, a spark buzzed through them both. Paul blushed and looked away, but he didn’t stop singing. He quite liked the sound of his voice and John’s, blending together in harmony. They sounded just as good as they’d sounded last night, choking twin moans and whispering dirty things into each other’s ears. There’d be no more of _that_ \- no, Paul knew he _couldn’t_ \- but there was no harm in this. _Music_. It had never steered him wrong before.

 

It wasn’t long until Ringo was joining in, humming a baritone and tapping his metal-wrapped fingers against the wooden banister of the stairs in a makeshift percussion, and soon it was little George too- singing at the top of his lungs, playing along with his feather duster to the best of his ability. Paul wasn’t bad at piano and he was pretty good on the bass and stellar on guitar too- but secretly, he didn’t think he was much at all on any kind of strings compared to George. Not that he’d ever let him know, of course. Their relationship didn’t work whenever George held the power. The scales toppled, and the consequences were devastating.

 

He liked the way it sounded with George and Ringo and him and John. Their voices blended perfectly, the beat tapped out against the wood didn’t falter, and soon they’d finished the cleaning and were all dancing around the house like lunatics as John’s records kept spinning hit after hit. It was strange, because for the first time in his life, Paul felt like he was _part of something._ Something _good_.

 

“Look at us, bunch of no-good musicians.” Ringo mused as the LP came to it’s close and resorted to only the quiet hum of the needle hitting the vinyl.

 

George asked, “You as well, Ritch?”, as he wandered back into the dining room, abandoning the duster as the table, finished with his façade of trying to be helpful. “You play?”

 

“Yeah, drums. I play with Rory and some of the lads- we’ve got a little band, actually.”

 

“A band?” George’s eyes lit up. He’d always wanted to be part of a band, that was no secret. But apart from Paul, he didn’t know any other musicians. Not any that would take him anyhow- not when he looked about fifteen and could hardly hold the weight of his guitar. Most lads didn’t even stick around long enough to hear George play- and if they did, they’d probably eat their words. But they wouldn’t. Not until he grew into his grin, at least.

 

“They played _Butlins_ , once,” John teased, rolling his eyes as he leant against the now _gleaming_ table, drumming his fingers along in a makeshift beat. “ _Basically_ famous.”

 

“John makes it sound a lot _naffer_ than it actually is-”

 

“-I keep _telling_ ya Rich! You’re too _good_ for bloody _Rory Storm_ and his band of fucking posers.”

 

“And what else would I do?”

 

“Join my band.” John shrugged, tone flippant. Ringo rolled his eyes like he’d heard it all before, but Paul didn’t pay much mind. He and George both looked across to John then, surprised. Because- well- he _knew_ John liked rock and roll, of course. He knew John could play guitar, as he’d mentioned last night. He knew John certainly had the _look_ of a rocker down too- with his ted curls and his metal pins and leather jacket even cooler than Paul’s, truly vintage. But never, _ever_ , would Paul have pegged him to be the member of an _actual_ band. John didn’t seem like he could ever be bothered to follow the rules long enough to try.

 

“The _Quarrymen_?” Ringo scoffed. “I thought you packed that all in when Stu moved to Germany.”

 

“We’re still a _band_ , Ritch. It’s just more… _conceptual_ , rather than physical at the moment.”

 

There was a beat where Ringo, George and Paul shared a look, before a slow smile spread across George’s face.

 

“So, it doesn’t exist then?”

 

“Not _currently_.” John shrugged, eyes wandering over in Paul’s direction. “In the future… well, I suppose we’ll see.”

 

Paul couldn’t help himself. He smiled back. “I suppose.” He agreed.

 

* * *

 

 

“I suppose I’ll be off then,”

 

They’d passed the time for a few more hours with a historical tour through the rock and roll greats, a few cigarettes and a tiny, weeny spliff Paul had rolled out of the remaining dregs of John’s stash, but eventually the hours had ticked by and the energy between Paul and John became more and more apparent. John wouldn’t leave him alone- wanted to be beside him all the time, touching him in every possible way, and the way Ringo’s eyes kept darting over to them in that _knowing_ kind of way was making Paul’s chest tight with nerves. He wanted everything and nothing simultaneously- he wanted _John_ , of course he wanted _John_. But Paul just couldn’t justify the other, uglier side of what they had done together. John was a cheat. That was just a fact he couldn’t look past.

 

“Did you drive Ritch?” John asked, blowing smoke rings into air with his glasses pushed down to the tip of his nose. He looked stupidly attractive. _Too_ attractive. It was pissing Paul right off.

 

“Yeah, I drove. Fancy a lift?” he looked over to George, who was distracted by his phone, his nose buried in the screen, eyes wide and panicky, expression just a note short of _completely fucking terrified._ “Georgie?” Ringo nudged him and turned out to be the only person in the world who didn’t get aggressively glared at for using his least favourite nickname. George looked up and cursed under his breath.

 

“Shit. _Shit._ I have to leave.” He shook his head, mop-top bouncing. “I just turned my phone on after finding it down the back of the sofa and I’ve got twelve missed calls from my mum, four from dad, two from _each_ of my brothers and a bloody novels worth of texts demanding to know where Dad’s fancy vodka went.” He shot a pointed glare towards Paul, who laughed, before one of George’s black looks shut him right up.

 

“Well, like I said, I’ll give ya a lift.”

 

“Sounds brill.” He stood up from the table as Ringo did, pulling on his jacket. “C’mon Paul.”

 

Paul looked towards John, and he felt a little sick as a wink was shot in his direction. He turned back to George and shot him a small forced smile.

 

“I’ll probably stick around with John for a bit.” He said. George didn’t bother arguing, already back to staring at his phone and texting frantically as he followed Ringo out of the room. His phone started ringing again, and he answered with a wince, darting out into the street before anyone had a chance to say goodbye. Ringo shot John and Paul a little smile as they followed them through the hallway towards the door, but Paul couldn’t bring himself to smile back. He lurked back by the banister, worry etched all over his face as he toyed with the sleeve of John’s hoodie which he’d kept on, even after showering and redressing when he really didn’t need to. He just wanted the comfort of John’s musky, weed-soaked smell, and even though it was wrong, he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to be selfish. Just for a little while.

 

When the door closed behind Ringo, John turned to look Paul in the eyes. This time, he didn’t smile, arms folded over his chest, one eyebrow raised, as if to say- _well, then?_ Paul felt the same sinking sickness in his stomach again. This time, he couldn’t just _ignore_ it. John could feel it too, he was sure of it.

 

“We should talk.” He said quietly. John sighed, looking away.

 

“Should we? I feel like talking might ruin all of this.”

 

“Probably. Still, has to be done, doesn’t it?”

 

John huffed a sad little laugh that Paul was sure he’d find etched into his memory forever. He looked back up at Paul, and then nodded towards the rickety old staircase.

 

“Sure you don’t want to have another shag first?”

 

Paul grinned. “I’d love to, but we shouldn’t. You’ve…” he bit his lip for a second, hesitant in his desire to speak it out loud, make it _real_ , but the fact of the matter was totally unavoidable. “Well, you’ve got a girlfriend, haven’t you John?”

 

John’s mouth set into a hard line. “Didn’t stop you last time.”

 

“We were _drunk_ John. I sniffed god knows what off that bloke with the hair- I- things got out of hand, didn’t they?”

 

“Are you…” John frowned. “Are you saying you weren’t a… _willing participant?_

 

“God! No! I was… of course I was! And this morning- I… I still _am_ \- at least, the part of me that lacks a moral compass, I suppose. But it’s still _wrong_ John. You’ve got a girl.”

 

“I’ll _dump_ her, babe.”

 

Paul rolled his eyes, even though John calling him _babe_ had sent fireworks bursting inside his chest- “Pull the other one-”

 

“-it’s got bells on, I _know_ , you said last night. But I’m serious, Paul! I wanna give this a chance. I’ll break up with Cyn- it wouldn’t be the first time.”

 

“And then what?” Paul couldn’t help it. He liked John so much, but his avid flippantness in regards to his own relationship was riling him up quicker than ever, and this time, he wasn’t able to hold back from raising his voice a little. “You get bored with me and start doing the same? Fuckin’ around behind my back with any old bit of skirt. Or go straight back to her? No _thanks_ John.”

 

 

“It won’t be like that!” John was defiant, and he stepped closer, resting his hands on Paul’s shoulders and shaking him gently. “I promise, Paul. Just… give me a _chance_ , alright? We could have a good thing going here, you and me. We’re the same… the music and the vintage shite and our mums… you felt it too- I know ya did.”

 

“Of course I did.” Paul said quietly, looking away towards the floor. “but- I just…”

 

“Just what?”

 

What else could he do? Paul knew John was offering him the world up on a silver platter, but his promises felt strangely hollow. Paul didn’t want to let himself be disappointed, not again. He’d done it before, offered himself up to people he couldn’t count on, and all that had happened was he ended up with his ego bruised and his heart shattered. That’s why he was hardened now- a womanizer, a flirt, never settling for just one person.

 

He couldn’t lie, not with John looking at him like _that._ He had to be honest.

 

“I don’t trust you John, that’s the long and short of it. I like ya- I like you a bloody lot, I do. But I can’t trust ya. Not as far as I could throw ya.”

 

John stared at him, for a few, heart breaking, earth-shattering seconds and Paul felt the world still around them. John opened his mouth as if to say something, before deciding to close it again, jaw hardening, eyes closing and opening again slowly. His hands slipped limply from Paul’s shoulders, and he stepped back, towards the door, turning his head away.

 

“Right.” He breathed, and it was so quiet, for a moment, Paul wandered if he’d even spoken at all.

 

“I should go.” he said, nodding towards the door.

 

John stepped aside, eyes kept low, and hardly watched as Paul passed him and curled his fingers around the door handle.

 

“Maybe you should.”

 

Still, despite everything, Paul paused in the open doorway, looked up into John’s eyes, hoping to save every little detail of his lovely face in memory- just in case he never got the chance to look again, and his happy, satisfied memories would become blurred by time and consequence. “Bye John.” He said.

 

“Bye.” John replied, and then the door was closing in his face, and Paul was stood alone on the porch, wondering why it felt so much like a break-up, when they’d never exactly been together in the first place.


	3. part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You said that you would be late, about an hour or two  
>  I said that's all right  
> I'm waiting here, just waiting to hear from you._

 

_Part Three_

 

 

 

 

“It’s not too late to leave, y’know.”

 

“ _Paul_ ,” George huffed, perhaps for the fourth time that evening. It was clear to see he was fast reaching the end of his tether. “We promised Ritchie we’d come. He texted me like, half an hour ago, asking where we were.”

 

Paul didn’t care. All his body itched to do right now was take off in the opposite direction of Richard Starkey’s semi-detached council home at full speed without looking back.

 

“I know, but-”

 

“-no buts.” George cut him off, stabbing at the doorbell with a bony finger, and Paul sighed. There was truly no way he could talk his way out of it. “Can’t back out now. We’ve come all the way here. Stop thinking of John for five minutes, and let’s have a laugh, yeah?”

 

And there it was. The name Paul had been avoiding saying aloud for an entire week. _John_.

 

“Have a laugh?” He scoffed, swallowing down the sharp stabbing pain in his chest and hoping George didn’t notice the way he shifted nervously from foot to foot on Ringo’s doorstep. Deflection was his best bet, so he nudged George in his skinny little ribs and smirked- “Have a laugh my _arse_. You just want a chance at slipping in between _Ringo’s_ spotty bedsheets.”

“What? I- No! I! That isn’t true Paul!” George’s cheeks lit up in a dazzling pink, and Paul had to bite his lip, unsuccessfully stifling a giggle.

                                                                                                                                     

 

“It _is_.” He said, and as the door handle began to turn, he flew to face Paul in a stuttering, embarrassed panic:

 

“Shut _up_ about it, alright?!”

 

“ _Geo_ -”

 

“-HIYA _RITCH_.” George cut him off before he could embarrass him any further, instead beaming at their host for the evening, a smiling, slightly swaying _Ringo Starr_ , gold chain gleaming from under his shirt collar, hair slicked up neatly at the sides and curls spilling over his forehead, mean grey streak running from his ear right back to his neck.

 

Alright, he did look good, Paul supposed. Perhaps _that_ would show John he really didn’t give a toss, getting with Ritchie, of all people. Although, looking sideways to George, who staring up at Ringo from the porch step like he was the second coming of fucking _Christ_ , he denounced the idea pretty quickly. He couldn’t do that to George. It wouldn’t be right.

 

“Here y’are, kid.” Ringo reached into his back pocket and produced a tightly wrapped joint with all the flair of a TV magician, before spinning it around and resting the butt in between George’s lips. “Don’t smoke it all at once.” He warned playfully. “Don’t fancy a repeat of last time, you’re heavier than you lok.”

 

“Thanks Ritch.” George rolled his eyes, pushing past Ringo to make his way into the party, but the blush on his cheeks was still as pink as a wafer. Paul just shook his head with a smile, before making his own way in, polite as ever, saying hello and waiting for the _go ahead_ nod before he lit a nervous fag. He hoped it wasn’t obvious, the way his eyes were scanning the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of John Lennon. If Ringo noticed, he didn’t say anything, more than happy to trail after George, nodding for Paul to come along too, leading them towards the main room of the little house.

 

“Where’s your parents then, Ritch?”

 

“South of France. Alright for some.”

 

“Why didn’t they take you with them?” George asked. Ringo shrugged.

 

“Didn’t fancy it, plus, I’m nineteen now. Have to pay me own way and all. Couldn’t really be bothered.”

 

“Rather spend your hard-earned cash on smoke and booze?” Paul teased. Ringo laughed.

 

“Something like that, yeah. Now come on, let’s have a drink and light up that joint.”

 

Paul could feel George eyeing him warily as he poured him self a stiff portion of whiskey into the pathetic, plastic _solo cup_ , hardly bothering to dilute it with a splash of coke before he took a drink, puffing away on his fag. Still, he wasn’t under scrutiny for long, because Ringo had procured a fabulous looking, old-fashioned mechanical cigarette lighter, and was holding the flame out to George, cupping it around the edge of his joint. One pull in, George had to lean back to cough violently, and Paul smirked.

 

At least some things hadn’t changed.

 

Ringo and George’s conversation dissolving into quiet chatter, Paul allowed himself to get a good look around the room. Like John’s party, it was packed full of older kids, both the art-school crowd and some of the rougher lads and girls that knocked about these parts. Paul supposed Ringo was as close to a _bit of rough_ as he and George had ever seen, living in the sketchier side of Liverpool, little more than a stones throw from their quaint, working-class suburb.

 

Still, Paul didn’t let the new faces intimidate him. He was actually quite certain of the fact that he didn’t see one face he recognised from school, and that was a good thing. That made the whole party feel much more _cool_ and exclusive. He took the joint from Ringo the second it was offered, smoke curling from his lips and tickling the tip of his nose.

 

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Paul spotted someone he _did_ recognise.

 

Mick was wearing some pretty outlandish looking red leather trousers, skin tight and clinging to every inch of his stick-like figure. He was bopping his shaggy head along to the music playing, singing along and having a laugh with his mates, but there was something dark in his eye that sent a shiver up Paul’s spine. Perhaps it was just the weed, but there was something about Mick that put him on edge. Perhaps it was just the sheer size of his _bollocks_ \- the kid radiated confidence, and although he was skinnier and scrappier than even _George_ , Paul was sure if provoked Mick could’ve destroyed any one of them in a fight.

 

He looked away, hoping Mick didn’t notice him. He was a nice enough lad, albeit a little strange and intimidating, and he gave out free drugs. But Paul wasn’t looking to score any _toot_ tonight. He was already on edge enough, thanks.

 

In truth, looking at Mick made Paul think of John. And he’d been _thinking of John_ more or less every waking moment for the last week. It was starting to become a little pathetic- even Mike and his dad were growing tired of his moping around the house. He needed to _forget_ about John Lennon-

 

“There he is.” George nodded over to the opposite corner of the room as Ringo left them to go and _mingle_ with his guests, and Paul sighed.

 

It was sort of impossible to forget about John Lennon when he was stood ten feet away, teddy-boy quiff gleaming with thick gel and hairspray, leather collar pulled up around his neck, spliff between his lips and Cynthia Powell at his side.

 

Paul didn’t say anything. John hadn’t seen him yet, talking with Cynthia in hushed tones, arms folded across his chest. They might have been arguing again, but that was nothing new, apparently. Nobody around them seemed to react, so Paul could only assume this was just another re-run of the _John and Cyn_ show, eternal partners in life and in disagreement.

 

Still, he couldn’t tear his eyes away, silently wishing it was _him_ getting the chance to have a _lover’s tiff_ with John followed by a copious amount of _making up_.

 

Paul was distracted by a barely-there laugh fluttering over from just behind them and turned his gaze briefly from John to see a swaying, smirking _Ivan_ , drunk as anything with his shirt half buttoned up and a fresh hickey already blossoming on his neck, stumbling his way over. He didn’t so much as bother to greet Paul or George, instead following their eye over to where Cynthia and John stood with a disbelieving scoff and an eyeroll.

 

“Wonder how long that’ll last then.”

 

Paul sighed. In truth, he’d been wondering the same thing all week, but now he was sure he knew the answer.

 

“Forever I suppose.” He said with a shrug, hoping he looked nonchalant as he took a strong sip from his drink. “They love each other.”

 

 

“No, _no_ ,” Ivan laughed, which was odd, shaking his head. Paul frowned, sharing a look with George. Ivan just smiled at them. “I mean the break-up, you twat.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

Ivan frowned at them as if to say, _uh, where the fuck have you been_? Before letting out another short laugh, taking a sip from his beer and snatching the joint from George’s lithe fingers.

 

“John dumped Cyn last week. They still haven’t got back together yet, which might be a record, for them. Usually it’s Cyn who leaves him and then John chases after her, but not this time. I wonder how long it’ll last, is all.”

 

“John dumped Cyn.” Paul repeated, slowly, trying to wrap his brain around the words. He took the joint back from Ivan, knowing if he left it too long they’d never see it again, and took a strong pull, openly staring across the room at John now. “John _dumped_ her?”

 

“Yep.” Ivan huffed. “Weird. She’s a _right_ catch, puts up with all his shit, stunning as anything. I don’t know what went through his head to chuck _her_.”

 

Paul didn’t say anything else, but at that moment, John and Cynthia finished their little argument. She stormed off with a huff, and John took that moment to scan the room for himself, eyes falling on Paul within seconds.

 

Paul froze, holding his breath. What was one supposed to do in a situation like this? Should he say hi- should he go over- should he just stand here and _gawp_ , like a fucking lemon?

 

John broke the ice in possibly the most _John Lennon_ way possible- by pulling a daft, spastic-looking face at Paul across the room, before winking. Paul barked out a surprised laugh, choking out the smoke he’d just pulled from the joint, and, clearly pleased with himself John smiled and looked away. That was the end of their interaction, and turning back to George, Paul couldn’t help but feel just a little bit pleased at the simplicity of it all.

 

“Aren’t you going to go over then?” George asked, a little bored-sounding, but Paul did his best not to be too offended. George just had a way of speaking that made everything sound so trivial, from the death of a family member to the last time he took a piss.

 

“Maybe I’ll see him at some point later, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Till then, why don’t we just enjoy ourselves?”

 

“If you say so.” George rolled his eyes, but he didn’t press for more, and Paul was relived. For the first time all night, he actually felt _relaxed_ , as if he could enjoy the party. And that was what he’d do. _Enjoy_ himself.

 

He could worry about John later.

 

 

* * *

 

 

An hour or so into the party, satisfied that George was more or less safe in his spot slumped on Ritchie’s couch, a few pretty birds fawning over him, giving him water and what-not, Paul allowed himself to have a little wander around the house. He wasn’t directly _seeking out_ John, but, he could admit that a few drinks and a little smoke had given him the slightest confidence boost. Now, he was sure he wouldn’t trip over his words or feel any awkwardness, should they come face to face again. Maybe they’d even have a cheeky snog, if he played his cards right.

 

( _Or_ they wouldn’t. _Or_ , they’d just be mates. Maybe things would be easier if they could _just be mates_ , Paul thought, before biting the inside of his cheek and shaking his head.)

 

Entering the main room of the party once again, it wasn’t John’s eyes that fell onto his from across the room. It was another familiar face from the last party- or- well, Paul certainly noticed her hair before he registered the rest of her. She still wore that same glorious, screaming red, and Paul had to wonder if it really was all natural or just some clever hairdressing trickery.

 

“Hello love,” he said with a smile as she approached him, slipping his arms around her waist for a loose hug. “ _Jane_.” He remembered her name now- but regretted saying it out loud. She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him, smirking.

 

“Did you just remember, Paul?”

 

“Of course not, love.” He shook his head, hand still on the small of her back. “How could I ever forget?”

 

Paul was a flirt, at heart. He didn’t see any harm in this at all. Jane was one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen, all soft pale skin and red hair and pretty features. John wasn’t exactly a _sure_ _thing_ \- in fact, he’d never met another person who filled him with so much uncertainty. Being a self-confessed control freak, Paul hated John’s unpredictable nature and hated how unstable it made everything seem.

 

Jane, on the other hand, seemed to be a pretty reliable type of bird. With a soft laugh she fished into her purse and pulled out her pouch of tobacco, offering him another _rollie_ , like _old times_ (although, he certainly didn’t count a week ago as _old times_ , and could hardly remember what they’d even talked about that night in particular other than _John_ ) in exchange for a few puffs at the joint he’d forgotten he was still holding.

 

How could he say no? John was nowhere to be seen anyway, and the slight creeping paranoia from too much puff whispered that maybe, perhaps, he had gone running after Cynthia again after all. Maybe that’s what they’d been talking about earlier, _working things out_. Ivan had said they’d broken up before, loads of times. What made this one so different?

 

John always went running back.

 

Shaking his head slightly, a little higher than he’d initially realised, Paul noticed that Jane had been talking, and did his best to nod along at all the right pauses, hoping, in turn, that she _hadn’t_ noticed just how completely spaced out his was, eyes never quite focusing on hers, always just behind, darting around the room. She was still yapping on and on about something or someone or _whatever_ , and Paul had spent so much time _trying_ to listen that he’d actually forgot to pay any attention at all. So, hoping she didn’t think him too much of a useless lout, he cut her off mid-sentence with a tug at her wrist, pulling her along into the middle of the room as the song changed to something a little more mainstream, and strung her along into a dance.

 

She went along with it just as fast, and Paul was surprised to see that she actually had a little bit of natural rhythm in her hips and that she had no qualms to letting him hold her there, swinging them around to the beat of the song until there was no space left between them. Nobody around paid them much mind, John still nowhere to be seen, so Paul did his best to clear his head and let himself enjoy the dance, music pumping, other bodies swinging around them.

 

“You’re so unlike any boy I’ve ever met before.” Jane was saying. Paul just let out a short laugh in reply and hoped she wouldn’t press for much more conversation whilst he was internally trying to decide whether it was worth sticking it on her or not.

 

Unfortunately, Jane didn’t give him much of a chance to think it through, because suddenly her soft lips were pressing against his, one hand winding up behind his neck, threading through his hair. Paul was too shocked by her boldness even to kiss back at first, but after a few seconds he caught up, eyes closed, waiting to feel that same _tug_ in his gut that he felt when he’d kissed John in the garden. Then, he would know that it wasn’t just the one wannabe ted who could make him feel sick with passion. He could be happy with Jane- lovely, pretty Jane who he could bring home to his da’ and make his younger brother jealous with.

 

But the feeling never came. If anything, kissing Jane only made him think of John _more_ , so Paul pulled away, releasing her from his arms and stumbling backwards.

 

“I… sorry,” he mumbled, stepping away as Jane frowned at him, lips still flushed and cheeks still pink, blinking like a startled mule. “Sorry,” he repeated, scratching at the top of his eyebrow awkwardly, pacing further and further away from her with every word. “I can’t… I’ve… I’ve got to- y’know.” Speech seemed to fail Paul for the first time in his life, and he was painfully aware of just how pathetic the excuses he attempted to make were, but found, surprisingly, that he didn’t really care. All Paul cared about then was putting as much distance between himself and Jane as possible, so he gestured vaguely with his thumb to the hallway entrance and shot her an awkward, apologetic smile.

 

Then he turned his back on her completely, pretending he couldn’t hear the way she called after him. Paul rushed back into the living room, heart thudding in his chest. For the first time all evening, he was _thankful_ he hadn’t yet caught glimpse of John. He wouldn’t have even known where to start with an explanation.

 

In the living room, George was still slumped in the centre of the sofa, a bird on each side of his slurring corpse. One was petting his face with a worried little frown and the other was giggling, whispering something into his ear, peppering kisses up the side of his jawline with a fag in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. Paul rolled his eyes but was pleased to notice Ringo sitting in the armchair just opposite, watching over George with an amused little smirk of his own.

 

“Oh, hullo Paul.” He nodded, spotting Paul as the door creaked closed behind him. George was none the wiser, eyes droopy, mumbling something under his breath to the blonde on his left. “Casanova’s had himself a right result.” Ringo muttered under his breath with a nod to the sofa, and Paul laughed, crossing the room to perch on the edge of the armchair.

 

“I doubt he’d be conscious enough to finish the job.”

 

“Don’t worry, I won’t let them take advantage of our Georgie.” Ringo joked. “I’ve been keeping my eye on him.”

 

“You should go and enjoy your party, Ritch. I can watch him.”

 

“Hiding from John?”

 

Paul sighed, biting the inside of his cheek. “Jane, for now. I might have accidentally snogged her a bit.”

 

“Well,” Ringo hummed thoughtfully offering Paul a sip of his beer, which he gladly took. “She’s a great lass.”

 

“I’m sure she is, but it’s no use, is it? All I could think about was John the entire time.”

 

“You know, Paul…” Ringo leant back against the armchair, fumbling in the breast pocked of his shirt for a cigarette. He drew two from the box, and Paul mumbled a _thanks_ , reaching over to grab the glass ashtray he’d spotted on top of the fireplace, hoping Ringo’s parents wouldn’t mind. “I’ve known Lennon quite a while, and I’ve never seen him like this before.”

 

Paul frowned, leaning into the flame of Ringo’s lighter. “How so?”

 

“Splitting up with Cyn, for one. He says he’s dead serious this time. Before, y’know, it used to be _her_ breaking it off with him, and he’d march around like he didn’t give a toss for a few days and then go crawling back with some flowers and the like but… this time it’s different. He’s let her go, completely. Probably for the best, all they seemed to do was argue and he drove her mad most of the time but- I suppose what I’m trying to say is that John… he really likes ya. Fuck knows why.”

 

“Hey!”

 

Ringo smiled, happy to see the expression mirrored on Paul’s face. “Kidding. But he does. And that’s not me just being a mate and trying to help him get laid. I’m dead serious.”

 

“Thanks Ritchie.” Paul said quietly. He puffed on his cigarette for no other reason than to stop the grin spreading across his face like wildfire. “I suppose you could say the feeling is mutual.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As the party raged on to it’s inevitable close, Paul mused and mused and _mused_ over Ringo’s words. It was convincing enough, for a half-drunk speech in a smoky living room. A week ago, Paul would’ve raced through the house then and there in search of John, before dragging him by the collar of his imitation leather jacket and chewing his face off in front of the entire crowd, just for the thrill of it. But- with not only Jane’s glare trailing him around the house like a dark shadow- something told Paul that he would be better off waiting for the smoke to clear. He didn’t know John at all, not really. Sure, he seemed to like him now- but would that change if he waited a week or two? John Lennon didn’t seem like the type of boy to hang around and wait, and the way he was starting to think he might feel- Paul didn’t want to waste his time on someone who would use him as a rebound- fucking him and dumping him before the turn of the next month.

 

(Past that, he hated to admit, he was just a little bit scared of John breaking his heart. He’d seen the look on Cynthia’s face, and dreaded the thought of experiencing that very same pain)

 

The party was drawing well into it’s close, most of the guests having already stumbled out into the night, leaving a trail of empty cups and cigarette butts in their wake when Paul spotted George, stumbling through the hallway with an arm around Ringo’s shoulders, one eye barely open, hair drooping around his forehead. Paul just folded his arms against his chest, leaning back on the hallway wall as he watched Ringo drag his friend up the stairs, shooting him a smile as he hobbled past.

 

Ringo seemed like a good lad, actually. Wise and gentle with a soul far older than his twenty-ish years. Paul figured George was in pretty safe hands, and had no qualms leaving him wherever he’d end up laid for the night. They’d have McDonald’s in the morning, and George would blush beet red whenever Paul so much as mentioned _Ritchie’s_ name. Things would be back to normal.

 

John was still nowhere to be seen.

 

Spotting an abandoned deck of cigarettes on the table, Paul was happy to help himself, slipping the box into his jacket pocket not seconds after drawing one for himself. He figured Ringo’s house had endured enough of a battering over the course of the night, so he let himself out into the chilly, concrete garden- barely an eight foot wide square with a tyre swing in one corner and a rusty bicycle left in the other. The rest of the garden was pitch black, and Paul’s vision could only take him halfway deep due to the lack of artificial light, so he stayed close to the house, leaning back against the wall where the kitchen window sat, tucking the cigarette between his lips.

 

“Fuck.” He muttered to himself, all too late realising he didn’t bother bringing along a lighter.

 

“Need a light?” a voice called from the abyss, followed by a metallic click, and an orange flame. Paul squinted as the flame grew closer, and one black-converse followed the other up the concrete path until John Lennon emerged, hair coiffed, jacket unzipped, shirt collar popped around his neck, silver zippo already open in his hand.

 

“Thanks.” Paul nodded, swallowing thickly as butterflies swarmed angrily inside his stomach. John said nothing, just nodded back, holding out the flame. Paul leant into the light, inhaled his cigarette, and then watched on in silence as John dug around his own pockets for a fag, and did the same.

 

Then, they stood facing each other, saying nothing at all- Paul’s cigarette in his left hand, John’s in his right, like a smoking mirror image.

 

“I told ya I would.” John said eventually. “And I do keep my word.”

 

“Seems so.” Paul hummed. He watched as the ash from John’s cigarette fluttered to the floor, burning read dying out to a smoky black smudge, barely perceptible in the dark, dingy garden,

 

“So?” John asked. Paul bit back a smile and looked away, off into the darkness behind them.

 

“So _what?_ ”

 

“Anything to say?”

 

Paul drug his eyes back over to meet John’s. His reflection seemed to hardly be breathing, let alone blinking, gaze baring into Paul’s with a screaming, shaking uncertainly. Paul noticed then, for the first time since they’d met, that John was nervous. John Lennon was _nervous_ as to what _Paul_ might say? It was absurd. So absurd, he thought, that he couldn’t hold back his smile any longer.

 

“Nothing at all.” he grinned.

 

John frowned. “What are you smirking like that for then?”

 

“No reason. It doesn’t matter, just- well… sorry. Y’know. For before.”

 

“I suppose I might find it in my heart to forgive you, if you stop looking at me like that. I’m fragile, remember. Just got out of a relationship, and all.”

 

“Is that so? I hadn’t heard.”

 

“Weren’t they your pretty green eyes scanning the room for a glimpse at me every five minutes then? Perhaps I confused ya with someone else.”

 

Paul smiled up at John through his eyelashes, flashing a tiny grin before forcing the butt of his cigarette back into his mouth, hoping it would keep him from pouring out his entire heart then and there, spilling it all out onto the concrete. That might’ve just been too obvious, even for them.

 

No, Paul would play John’s coy game for as long as they could. This was far easier, and less potentially painful than admitting anything _real_.

 

“It’s been known to happen. I must have a doppelganger.”

 

“Another dark-haired boy with five-foot long eyelashes and a bird’s arse? Impossible.” John inched closer to him, close enough that Paul could smell the fag-ash on his breath, and could feel the tickle of smoke as it fluttered out from between his lips. Then came the heat of the burning end when John took another sharp drag, hot enough and near enough that Paul leant back against the wall on instinct alone, effectively letting John box him in.

 

“Stranger things have happened.” Paul said quietly, and John smiled, tossing the cigarette away.

 

“Fancy starting over, then?”

 

Paul had never been much of an actor, but he did a pretty good job at making it _look_ as if he might’ve wanted to think over John’s proposal for a few tense seconds.

 

“I suppose Elvis might miss me if I said no.”

 

At that, John laughed- and not in that bitter, self-absorbed, sarcastic way of his. He laughed for real, eyes crinkling as his lips curled into a real, genuine smile. Paul was glad they’d accidentally-on-purpose ended up so close together. This was an image he could get used to seeing, and if not, one he’d certainly remember vividly.

 

“He’s been whining for a week! Doing my nut in- Mimi’s threatened to skin him.”

 

“She sounds like a right handful.”

 

“Oh, she is.” John rolled his eyes. “She’s quite the character.”

 

“Well, then I hope to meet her one day soon.”

 

John looked down his nose at him then, a smirk fluttering around his mouth.

 

“You definitely will. Sooner than you’d think, maybe.”

 

Paul leant up off the wall, tilting his head just an inch so he and John were eye to eye.

 

“How soon?”

 

John grinned, “How’s tomorrow morning sound?”, and didn’t even recoil when Paul snorted like a child, laughing so hard that he smacked his head into the brick wall behind them.

 

“Ouch!” he winced, rubbing the back of his head- which in turn forced him to lean even closer to John, close enough to feel his warm breath across the skin of his face, breaking through the cold, night-time air. “Well, I suppose that might be the nicest way someone’s tried to get me in bed, ever”

 

“Is it working?” John asked, and Paul felt the pain melt away when he met John’s eyes again.

 

This time, he didn’t bother biting back his grin.

 

“What do you think?”

John held his gaze, mirrored his smirk, and all around them it felt as if time had completely frozen. Paul didn’t mind. He’d be happy to live in this lightning-charged moment for the rest of his life. But John had other ideas. He looked away for a second, before tossing his fag out into the bleak _nothingness_ of Ritchie’s dark little yard, and, as his eyes fell back on Paul, he leant in close with a happy, satisfied, beer-smelling sigh.

 

And then, predictably, they were kissing.


	4. part four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the final chapter !!! an epilogue of sorts. John and Paul (and George and Ringo), six months on.

 

_Part Four_

 

 

 

Paul tried not to feel too excited, but, stepping out of a piping hot shower to brush his teeth, he couldn’t help but grin like the fucking Cheshire cat as he caught sight of his own reflection, half-visible through the steam on the mirror.

 

 _Six months_. It wasn’t even a _real_ anniversary _._ An achievement, for sure; Paul had never really committed himself to anything for longer than six months other than playing guitar! But, by some strange turn of events, here he was in the bleak mid-winter, the same old dreary, rainy Liverpool, six months deep into an actual honest-to-God _relationship_ with one _John Winston Lennon_.

 

This was _the_ John Winston Lennon who made girls squeal and men sneer, draped in leathers with a mean punch and sharp tongue and an absolutely lethal sense of charm. But, as Paul had come to learn, it was also just _John Winston Lennon_ \- the boy who played banjo chords on the guitar and didn’t realise it wasn’t quite right until Paul showed him how. The same John Winston Lennon who threw rocks at his window and snuck into his bed in the middle of the night, uncaring and unintimidated by Jim McCartney’s unwavering distain as at his near-constant presence by Paul’s side. The same John who covered his Aunt Mimi’s house in mistletoe at Christmas just so he could have an excuse to kiss Paul whenever he wanted to, who asked Paul if he wanted to _Go Steady_ barely three weeks after they’d first started seeing each other, just because he couldn’t bear to wait a day longer, and the same John who, on New Years Day woke (a very hungover) Paul up with fifty kisses and two ferry tickets to _Calais_ , because instead of saving the fat birthday check his uncle had sent him from Scotland for a rainy day, he’d decided that they just _had_ to go and see Paris instead, just the two of them.

 

So now, they were six months in, their little holiday just a few weeks away, and Paul didn’t bother wiping the smirk off of his face as he dressed and fixed his hair, heart fluttering when he spied the pictures they’d taken together on a trip to Brighton, blu-tac’d onto his bedroom wall.

 

He studied the photobooth strip fondly for a few seconds, before pulling out his phone and snapping a picture. Yeah, six months wasn’t _really_ an anniversary, but when you had a boyfriend as gorgeous and infamous around town as _John Lennon_ , there was no point being coy about it. Paul uploaded the picture to Instagram with the caption _six months with this bell-end, send help??_ before gazing back at the black-and-white strip fondly, stroking his finger over John’s tiny face. It didn’t matter that his eyes were closed in the first one, or that John was pulling a daft face in the second one or even the fact that he hadn’t even bothered looking at the camera in the _third_ one- no- instead he was looking at _Paul_ , eyes hooded, smile _heart-breaking_. They didn’t usually bother taking pictures at all, too busy just _enjoying_ each other’s company- so Paul cherished the few that they had and had no qualms about showing them off when given ample opportunity.

 

Around midday Paul ventured downstairs, a little miffed that he hadn’t yet heard a word from John, and silently hoped he hadn’t actually forgotten. Not that it mattered, he thought- _because six months isn’t actually an anniversary, anyway, it just might have been nice if he sent a text or-_ but, was quickly interrupted by the doorbell ringing.

 

“Mike, can you get that?” he called from the kitchen, but judging by the sharp shooting sounds coming from the deafening telly, Mike was far too immersed in whatever video game he was playing to grace Paul with so much as a response. If their dad hadn’t left for work already, Paul was sure _Michael_ would’ve been clipped around the ear for spending his Saturday in front of the telly rather than doing his homework. Still, dad _wasn’t_ around, so with a sigh, Paul dragged himself up from the kitchen table, stubbing out his fag, and entered the hallway.

 

“If you’ve been ordering shite off dad’s amazon again, he’ll have you for a rug in front of the fire, son and you can forget about-” he was halfway through his scolding when the unlocked door swung open and the strumming of a guitar cut him off mid-sentence. Suddenly, Paul found himself face to face with _John_ , stood right there on his doorstep in a pair of beaten black jeans and the new bomber jacket Paul had bought him for his birthday, hair soft and shaggy over his face rather than slicked up into his signature quiff, guitar in arms.

 

“John-”

 

“-wait, give me a chance, hold on.” John cut him off, adjusting his fingers over the frets until he found the chord he was searching for, strumming out an opening melody Paul was sure he hadn’t heard before. “Right, so, it goes like- _if I fell in love with you / would you promise to be true / and help me, understand-”_

Paul stood in the doorway with a smile so wide that his face was aching by the time John reached the shaky middle eighth, but he didn’t care. John hardly looked away from him throughout the entire, short performance, except for the few times he stumbled over chord progressions. Paul pretended not to notice. Honestly, he didn’t care at all, because John was _here_ , standing on his fucking doorstep on their six-month anniversary, belting out a _love-song_ he’d likely written himself, uncaring of the strange looks shot at them from neighbours and passers-by.

 

“ _Johnny_ ,” he bit his bottom lip, heart hammering when John finally finished, twisting his guitar so it rested against his back instead, reaching for Paul’s waist and pushing him back into the house with a kiss. The door was kicked shut behind them, but John’s lips didn’t rest from their assault across his face, spreading from his lips to his cheek, up to his forehead and across his nose until he was covered in _Lennon_ -slobber, and didn’t mind one bit.

 

“Youse are _gay_!” Mike yelled from the living room, mid-battle.

 

“Yeah no shit, _runt_.” John hollered back with a manic grin, still holding Paul against him tightly, one hand slipping underneath his jumper to stroke against the skin of his lower back. Paul wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders, hugging him tightly. He loved just how quickly John had slotted into his life and his family. He treated Mike like his own troublesome little brother, had charmed all his aunties when they finally got to meet him at the annual McCartney Christmas-Eve do. The only one not quite so sold had to be Paul’s dad, a little apprehensive of this wannabe-ted draped in leather and hair gel. Paul suspected _Jim McCartney_ thought of John as a bad influence. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but Paul didn’t care. He quite liked the idea of being corrupted by John Lennon, anyway.

 

John kissed him again, square on the mouth, before reaching up to brush the hair away from his forehead.

 

“Happy Anni, angel-face.” He teased, and Paul forced himself to roll his eyes, trying to ignore the way his whole face lit up in a pleased pink.

 

“God, I forgot how much of a soppy fucker you were.”

 

“You _love_ it.”

 

“I do.” Paul hummed, kissing him again. “The song too, bloody brilliant. Did you really just write it for me, or is it done by someone else?”

 

“Nope. One hundred percent authentic Lennon-McCartney collaboration, my boy. Now come on.” He pushed Paul back a little, detangling them before nodding to the front door. “Get your coat. We’re going to lunch, my treat.”

 

“ _John_.” Paul whined. He hated how much money it felt like John spent on him, and he hated how much he enjoyed getting treated like a princess by him, because he’d never been like that with anyone before. “You don’t have to-”

 

“ _Relax,_ ” John circled his back, steering him towards the door before reaching onto the bannister to grab his Harrington jacket. “It’s only burgers.”

 

“Fine, just burgers.”

 

“-and then, tonight…”

 

“… _tonight_?” Paul shrugged on his jacket and let John push him out the door, one strong hand lacing with his as they set off down the street. “What’s _tonight_?”

 

“Well, Mimi’s out for her once-a-year brush with a social life.” He said, nonchalant as anything as he swung their interlocked hands together, bopping on down the street. Paul was thankful John didn’t bother looking at him, because he was sure he’d find his expression very telling. “Figured you might like to come over. Stay the night, perhaps?”

 

Paul squeezed John’s hand a little tighter and grinned, knocking their heads together.

 

“Trying to get in my knickers, John Lennon?”

 

“Always, darling.”

 

It was just a passing joke, and Paul honestly _tried_ (and failed) not to think about it too much as he sat opposite John in the little burger place on the high street that did the best banana milkshakes in the whole of Liverpool. His efforts, of course, were futile. John’s words swam around in the back of his brain, poking and prodding him over and over again.

 

It wasn’t a _secret_ between them. It just wasn’t something they talked about often.

 

Paul had been with him for six months, but he still hadn’t let John fuck him.

 

And Paul was no prude. Before, when he’d been single, it didn’t always take a lot for a good-looking guy to get in his pants, and he had no qualms about _slinging one up (_ as _George_ put it, for some ghastly reason) a bird minutes after meeting her, but for some reason, with John, he’d been a little apprehensive.

 

It wasn’t as if they hadn’t had sex _at all_. They fooled around constantly- Paul couldn’t go two minutes in a room alone with John without pouncing on him- and John had actually let him do it a few times, but it had never really been their favourite thing to do together. It came down to their personalities. John was just far too dominating for Paul to ever feel in control, sexually, and what shocked him the most was the fact that he didn’t actually mind being overpowered like so. Paul had never been anything close to a submissive-type before, in any past relationships, but there was something about _John_ and his total desperation to have Paul in every single way possible, all the time, that turned him on like nothing else.

 

So, it wasn’t like Paul didn’t _want_ John to do him. Because he did. He _really did-_ and could only recall countless nights where they were _just so close_ before changed his mind, moving things in a different direction. And, to his credit, John hadn’t once complained, or made hm feel guilty about it. He just rolled with the punches-

 

-but he _wanted_ it, badly. Paul could practically smell it on him.

 

He’d never dare admit it to John, but Paul’s main reluctance to move things further between them came (unsurprisingly so) from his own lingering insecurities. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the looks shot at them across the street or at parties by people who _knew_ \- people who _knew_ John and _knew_ Cynthia and looked at Paul as nothing more than a silly _fling_ to pass the time until John came back to his fucking senses. To her credit, Cynthia had been nothing but supportive of their relationship, and always had a smile and a polite _hello_ for Paul when she saw him, even if she barely looked in John’s direction. But their relationship had been infamous across Liverpool for _years_. Most of the time, it felt as if people were just _waiting_ for the next instalment of the _John-and-Cyn_ show, and no matter how much he tried, Paul had struggled to shake the idea that John might just be the prick their peers thought him to be.

 

It had grated on him for six months. Six fucking _months_ of quietly wondering if John might just turn around and break his heart on a whim, leaving him in the lurch and running right back to something safe and soft and familiar. But now, six months down the line, sipping on a banana milkshake with extra whipped cream that John had ordered for him without even asking, Paul forced himself to try and reconsider.

 

“Hey,” John said, randomly, seemingly oblivious to Paul’s pensive thoughts. “You know I love ya, right?”

 

Paul couldn’t hold back then. He smiled. “Soft lad.”

 

“Come off it.” John turned back to his burger, teeth tearing through the strips of meat. Paul picked at his fries and stared at John across the table.

 

How could he possibly doubt what was right here in front of him? Here they were, eating burgers, six months deep into a _real_ relationship. John had written him a _love song_ , for God’s sake. They’d intertwined their lives at every turn, making it near impossible for any kind of quick, clean separation. They’d started playing in a _band_ together, with George and Ringo. John had even been to his mother’s _grave_ , little more than a month after they’d first met, and in turn, Paul had chased John through the cemetery after a stupid, pointless argument, finding him crouched in the grass over the headstone of one _Julia Lennon_ with tear tracks on his face and a cigarette between his lips.

 

He and John just didn’t _work_ without each other. Not anymore. And if that wasn’t enough reason to trust him, Paul didn’t know what would be.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After lunch, Paul had intended to head straight home to mentally prepare himself for the plethora of possibilities that awaited him come evening, but his feet took off on their own accord on the way back, and soon enough he ended up turning down another familiar road, just a few streets away from his own.

 

George’s house had a white door, covered in nicks and scrapes that were to be expected from a house full of moody, teenage lads. Nonetheless, for all its little quirks and shortcomings, George’s house had always felt like a _real home_ , and Paul loved nothing more than sitting in his mate’s front room, playing guitar and singing daft rock’n’roll songs as his mother cheered along from the kitchen.

 

Louise Harrison was the one to open the door, smiling when her eyes fell on Paul’s face, pulling him into a hug.

 

 “Ah, hello Paul, love!”

 

Paul smiled. George’s mum had always liked him. Liked him more than she liked George, it seemed sometimes, and he enjoyed teasing him about it. “Hiya Mrs Harrison. Our George in?” he asked, stepping into the narrow hallway not unlike his own. All working-class houses in Liverpool looked more-or-less the same, and Paul liked the easy-going familiarity of the Harrison home, having been there more  than a thousand times over the years.

 

“He’s upstairs, moping again,” she rolled her eyes. “But- I’m sure he’ll be happy to see your face!”

 

“Moping again?” Paul asked, curiosity spiking. Of course, he knew George could be a moody bastard at the best of times, but he had no doubt that for once, there was a legitimate reason behind his sulking. Recent events told that story perfectly.

 

“It’s all he does these days,” Louise sighed fondly, before reaching out and ruffling Paul’s dark hair. “Girl troubles I suppose?”

 

“Hm.” Paul swallowed a snicker. “Must be.”

 

“How’s you and your John?”

 

“We’re great, ta.” He smiled. he quite liked the sound of that, actually. _His John_. “Really great. George upstairs?”

 

“Head on up love. Maybe you’ll get him to crack a smile.”

 

Paul raced up the stairs of George’s house two at a time, stopping at the first door on the left, covered in band stickers and a metal plate screwed into the wall reading _Georgie’s room_ , decorated baby blue with a Thomas-the-tank-engine motif. It had been screwed into the door when they brought baby Geo home from the hospital, and by the time he became old enough to want shot of the embarrassing, childish decoration, the screws had long rusted, forever to be stuck in the centre of his door.

 

No wonder George was always in such a huff.

 

Paul didn’t bother knocking, just turned the handle and stepped into George’s room, watching with a laugh as George’s slender form exploded in ecstatic movement, practically flying off the bed, cigarette tossed out of the open window before he sat up, removed his massive headphones and noticed not his mother, but Paul, stood in the doorway.

 

“Fucking hell Paul, give me a heart attack why don’t ya?” he scowled as Paul shut the door behind them, reaching into his bedside drawer for another cigarette. Paul didn’t know what had happened in the last few months, but recently, it felt as if he rarely ever saw George _without_ a cigarette in his mouth. The smell clung to his hair and his clothes, and he was a fool if he thought that his mother didn’t know. Mimi could smell it on he and John before they so much as entered the house.

 

“Sorry, I was in the area. Your mam let me in.”

 

“We live four streets from each other, you’re always in the area,” George glared, flicking something on his phone so that _Odessey and Oracle_ blared from his massive sub-woofer rather than his headphones. “So,” he huffed, offering Paul a cigarette, which he took. “What do you actually want?

 

“Ah, see straight through me don’t ya?”

                                                                                                                                    

“Course I do. Always have.”

 

Paul laid back on the bed, lit cigarette between his lips, as George sat above him, legs crossed. “Can we chat, Geo?” he asked, staring up at the ceiling. George rolled his eyes so fiercely, Paul could practically feel at as he laid down on the bed beside him.

 

“What else do we ever do?”

 

“Ha-ha. I’m serious!”

 

George waved his hand in the air vaguely. “Go for it.”

 

“Well...” Paul rolled over onto his front, reaching down the side of the bed for the plastic ashtray he knew George was hiding. “It’s just… tonight’s me and John’s six months, y’know.”

 

“Yes, the vomit inducing mushy instagram post was enough thanks.”

_“Whatever_. That isn’t what I came to chat about.” Paul glared at him. “I was just thinking… maybe… tonight might _be_ _the_ _night_.”

 

George stared back at him blankly. “The night?”

 

“You _know-_ ”

 

“-I _don’t_.”

 

“Come _on_ ,” Paul couldn’t hide the blush on his face now. The one thing he _didn’t_ fancy doing today was having a graphic sex talk with _George_ , of all people, even if he _did_ sort of need it. “The, uh… the _one_ thing we haven’t done together.”

 

George continued staring at him blankly for a few seconds, before realisation finally dawned on his face, and he grinned, tucking his hands behind his head, turning to look at Paul.

 

“ _Ohhhh_.” He smirked. “So tonight’s the night you’re gonna finally let John sling one up ya?”

 

“ _George_!” Paul was, of course, no prude. But did they _really_ have to say it out loud? It wasn’t quite the way he’d been raised. Maybe John was right. Maybe he was a _bit_ of a princess, sometimes.

 

George blinked at him like a fucking stupid cow, feigning innocence. “What? Was that not it?”

 

Paul avoided his eye, rolling around onto his back again, exhaling smoke and resting the ashtray on his chest.

 

“Of _course_ that’s it.” he sighed.

 

“So… what?”

 

“So, what do you _think_?”

 

George paused for a second, thinking it over. Unsurprisingly, his answer was hardly half as insightful as Paul was hoping it to be.

 

“I say do it.” he shrugged. “You might be less uptight.”

 

“Oi!”

 

“Nothing loosens you up like a good proper shag Paul, it’s been proven.”

 

“God, really?” Paul blushed. George didn’t even crack a smile, this time, just nodded, solemn and _dead_ serious.

 

“Yeah. Six months without satisfaction. Practically a record, for you.”

 

“Now, I’ll have you know that I’m _very_ satisfied, thanks.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve heard you two going at it through the walls more times than I’d actually like to admit. So spare me the gory details, hm?”

 

Ignoring him, Paul sighed, drumming his fingers against his chest in makeshift rhythm, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I just… with John… I wanted to make sure, y’know? That I was making the right decision, trusting him like that. It’s actually quite a big deal to me.”

 

“Paul, John worships the fucking ground you walk on and he loves you like mad.” George said, and despite the sarcasm that drawled throughout his tone, Paul could tell with just a look that he was being completely genuine, and this actually reassured him more than he’d care to admit.

 

“Plus,” George added after a few moments of contemplative silence. “You used to love it up the arse back when you were a slag, so what’s the harm?

 

At that, they had to laugh. Paul rolled his eyes.

 

“Thanks Geo. I can always count on you to clear me head.”

 

“Just tellin’ ya the truth.”

 

“Suppose that sets it then.” He said, and it was strange, how final the decision felt. Of course, Paul knew that logistically, he could potentially back out of it at any moment- it wasn’t like he’d have to _force_ himself, or worse, John would ever try and _force him-_ but something told Paul that maybe, he’d finally made his bed, and he was going to do a little more than just lie in it.

 

“Tonight’s the night.” He breathed smoke, and George chuckled darkly.

 

“Congratulations.”

 

Changing the subject, Paul stubbed out his cigarette and sat up on the bed, staring back down at George, who was still smoking, tapping his foot along to the beat of the song, seemingly content. _Seemingly_. Paul knew better than to trust _seemingly_. “So,” he asked, as nonchalantly as possible. “How’s, uh, how’s Ritchie?”

 

It was pretty impossible not to smirk when George’s face lit up in a glowing shade of crimson, cigarette drooping in his mouth, ash spilling onto his t-shirt. “He’s fine.” He said, perhaps a little too quickly. “Why are you asking me?

 

Paul hummed. “Fine, is he? Was he just _fine_ when you were sitting on his lap snogging him into Candace Green’s velour armchair or was that after?”

 

George shut his eyes tightly, as if that simple gesture was enough to stave off Paul’s oncoming interrogation. “I don’t want to talk about it.” he mumbled.

 

“Yet here we are, talking about it.”

 

“Fine.” George cracked one eye open to shoot Paul a foul glare, before stubbing out his cigarette and digging the palm of his hands into his eyes. “I snogged _Ritchie_. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

 

“No, because I saw it with my own eyes, thank you very much!”

 

“Surprised you saw anything at all, I could’ve sworn you were sucking John off in the bathroom at the time.”

 

“Nah,” Paul grinned deviously, remembering the exact moment John had dragged him by the wrist into the nearest loo and locked the door behind them, uncaring of the queue of people outside. “That was after. Now, come on, crack a smile at least, George! I’ve been waiting for one of yas to make a move for six months-”

 

“-it hasn’t been _that_ long”

 

“Maybe you didn’t realise, but we all did-”

 

“ _God_ , _”_ George groaned. “Can’t we go back to talking about you getting it up the arse tonight?

 

“Geo!” Paul _squealed_ like an excited child, ruffling George’s hair. “Your first little boyfriend-”

 

“He’s _not_ my fuckin’ _boyfriend_.”

 

“Two relationships in one band? This could be dangerous.”

 

“It’s not a fuckin’ _relationship_!”

 

“-but think of the BREAKUP SONGS! It’ll be like Fleetwood Mac! Could be stellar, actually.”

 

“ _Paul_.” George cut through his inspired ramblings, sitting up with his arms folded. He refused to meet eyes with Paul, eyes fixed on the dark blue squared of his bedsheets. He looked… well... _sheepish_ , Paul supposed. Perhaps now wasn’t the ideal time for teasing. “It’s… we’re not… we’re just seeing how this goes. Not even that! We haven’t… spoken about it. Maybe we wont at all. It’s just a snog. It doesn’t… have to mean anything.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, just a snog,” Paul smiled, knocking his shoulder against George’s fondly. “doesn’t mean anything, really, and then it’s just a shag and then it’s just six months down the line, soppy love-songs and no cheating.”

 

“We’re not all _Lennon-McCartney_.”

 

“Not yet, but Harrison-Starr has a good ring to it!” Paul stood up from the bed, shooting George a little wink. His mate looked away, but Paul could see that inside, he was biting back a massive grin. “Anyway, I should go.” he nodded to the door. “I’m gonna wanna shower and work on that new bassline before I see John later.”

 

George grinned, “Before you get your perfect little musical brain shagged out through your arse, you mean?”

 

Paul didn’t bother teasing back. He could’ve, oh, he had _plenty_ of witty comments about George and Ringo he’d been sitting on for _months_ , but now wasn’t really the time. He’d give George a few more days to realise what he wanted. “Hopefully,” he said instead, content to leave it just at that, actually, before George’s phone- laid face-up on the bed- began to buzz, a very familiar face on the photo that filled the screen. “I’ll be off then.” Paul backed his way towards the door, smiling innocently. “Say hi to Ritchie for me.”

 

George groaned, and flopped back onto the bed, face down.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Standing on the doorstep to _Mendips_ , Paul felt maybe around a _thousand_ times more nervous than he had the first time he’d ever been here. Weird to think, six months ago he’d been stood on the very same doorstep with George complaining and moaning by his side, a shindig full of debaucheries raging on from inside. It was funny where his priorities lied then, compared to now. Six months ago all Paul had cared about was getting with the _in-_ crowd, making a name for himself amongst the Liverpool teen social scene. Now he’d gotten a little more than what he bargained for, falling for the Liverpool Institute of Art’s fearless leader, _John Lennon_ , literal life and soul of every party.

 

It was actually part of the reason his dad wasn’t entirely _supportive_ of their _union_. Since dating John, it seemed like every weekend (and some weekdays) there was a different event, a different bar or club that didn’t ID for John and his friends, a different house to wreck or pub to play in with their little band. Bouncers turned a blind eye even to _George’s_ baby-face if John was on the billing, and partying four out of seven nights a week had taken a toll on the lot them. John and Ritchie were used to it, by now, but every now and then Paul caught George falling asleep on his feet at the bar, and had to nudge him the ribs to startle him awake, concealing his own desperate yawn.

 

But Paul didn’t mind the tiredness. Not really. Not when he woke up the next morning hungover and pouting to see John, still knocked for six, snoring at his side.

 

(he looked cute when he slept like that, with his mouth hanging open and drool pooling at the pillow)

 

John opened the door and grinned at him in that manic, _John_ kind of way, throwing a hand up to his forehead dramatically as he took the bouquet of flowers from Paul’s arms (okay, shoot him, he could be just as soppy too, sometimes) pretending to swoon like a bird.

 

“For me? Oh, you shouldn’t have!”

 

“Gotta keep you sweet somehow.” Paul teased back, following John into the house. “I’m sure Mimi will have a vase to put them in somewhere.”

 

“So they’re more for her than for me? Rubbish.” John poked him in the side, abandoning the flowers on the kitchen side in favour of holding Paul against it, fingers tickling across his skin. “You’re the shittest boyfriend ever, you know. You’re not trying to get into Mimi’s knickers behind my back, are ya?”

 

“Don’t be disgusting, John.” Paul laughed, scrunching up his face in disgust at the mere though of _Aunt Mimi’s_ lacy _undergarments_. John just leaned in close, brushing their foreheads together, amused by his repulsion. “If anything,” Paul continued. “ _She_ fancies _me_. I’m the only one who actually bothers tidying up after myself-”

 

“-I _make_ the bed, sometimes!”

 

“- _Sometimes_ , and only when I lecture you to do it.”

 

“God, I can’t wait till we get our own place. Then we’ll see who lectures who.”

 

Paul blushed at that. It wasn’t uncommon, for John to make fleeting comments about a version of the distant, _distant_ future where they remained together. It was always, _when we live together-_ or, _when we get married-_ or _when we have a kid-_ and it seemed as such that John had no qualms about tying himself to Paul for the foreseeable future, despite his apparent _raging_ commitment issues. What’s more, he didn’t seem fazed by it at all, whereas Paul would be reduced to a blushing, stuttering mess whenever John so much as mentioned what they might do together next month, let alone ten years down the line.

 

“What’s the plan tonight then?” he asked, changing the subject, but unable to hide the smile from his face. “Wining and dining me, is it?”

 

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I can’t cook for shite and that enormous burger earlier might have spoiled my appetite. So I was thinking dessert’s better than dinner anyway, right?”

 

“Can’t argue with that.” Paul smirked. _Dessert’s better than dinner_ \- he wasn’t _stupid_ , he knew what _that_ meant, and was fairly pleased with it. The quicker they _got_ _on_ with things the quicker he’d have nothing left to worry about, and Paul was happily mid-way through snaking his arms around John’s neck and leaning up to kiss him when his boyfriend side-stepped his advances, wandering over to the fridge and pulling out-

 

-two slices of chocolate cheesecake, perfectly preserved, and a tub of ben and jerry’s from the freezer soon following. Paul deflated a little.

_So… he meant actual dessert?_

“Chocolate cheesecake, your favourite.” John waved the plate in front of his face teasingly, ice cream tucked under his arm as he wandered back into the main room, leaving Paul stunned and just a little bit turned on, in the kitchen. “Bring along the spoons!” John called back.

 

So, begrudgingly, Paul brought along the spoons. He wasn’t exactly hungry, a little too nervous to eat, but John knew him too well and knew that if he didn’t touch his chocolate cheesecake (which was, absolutely, his favourite dessert of all time) there’d be a narrowed, suspicious gaze falling on him any minute.

 

So he wolfed down the cake as quickly as possible and picked at the ice-cream, John stretched out across the sofa with his legs spread, Paul just beside him, legs crossed, picking at the skin of his ankle. He was doing his best to get comfy, leaning back against the sofa and leaning into John’s arm, which was stretched over the back, but whenever he got close enough to smell John’s aftershave he panicked and leant back again. Was it possible for someone to be _too_ arousing? Paul was already half-hard in his pants and all they were doing was watching fucking _Marley & Me._ it didn’t matter that they’d seen it together fifty times. John always cried like a baby at the end, and that wasn’t exactly the kind of mood Paul was going for.

 

“Can… uh… could we watch something else maybe?”

 

“What?” John frowned. “But you love _Marley & Me_?”

 

“Course I do. Just… bit depressing, isn’t it, what with the dog… y’know… and all that. Can’t we watch something… exciting.”

 

John didn’t answer straight away, just sort of gave Paul that _what-game-are-you-playing_ look before he reached over for the TV remote, switching it from _DVD_ to netflix without another word. He set the ice cream down on the table beside them, next to their stacked empty plates, and shot Paul another suspicious look over his shoulder. Paul pretended not to notice, eyes glued to the screen as he slid a little closer to John.

 

“Stop fidgeting.” John sighed after a few minutes of _Pulp Fiction_ or whatever gory, Tarantino film they were watching (Paul was hardly paying attention, but there’d been lots of long conversations and a shooting already) turning to glare at Paul, who’d been wriggling about the sofa. “Bloody getting on my nerves.”

 

“Sorry John.”

 

“It’s fine, c’mere.” John lifted his arm, _finally_ , and Paul slid underneath it, laying his head on John’s shoulder. From then, he tried his best to focus on the film, but it was hard when John’s fingers were dancing over the ball of his shoulder, tracing little patterns into the side of his shirt. It was something John did all the time, without thinking, touching him like so. Half the time he was practicing guitar chords on Paul’s skin or tracing a new sketch, a new doodle, a new poem, and usually Paul didn’t pay it much mind- but being this close to John, his skin was burning hot, nerve ends kicking into overdrive at even the slightest touch. Paul was sure if he so much as opened his mouth, all that would come out was _sex, sex, sex with John, sex-_ because he couldn’t think of anything else.

 

“You alright?” John asked after fifteen minutes of silent suffering, finally noticing Paul’s vaguely pained expression. “You feel a bit hot.”

 

“Kiss me.” Paul blurted out, not even giving himself the time to blush or feel embarrassed before he was sitting up, eye to eye with John, who just looked back at him, vaguely amused.

 

He batted his eyelashes playfully, asking, “Is that an order, _Sir_?”, but he didn’t give Paul much time to swipe back before his request was fulfilled, John’s lips fluttering over his in a string of short, chaste kisses. Usually, Paul loved the soft little butterfly kisses John doused him with because they made his toes tingle and his heart swell, but in this particular moment, his _heart_ wasn’t exactly the body part he was hoping John would want to effect. So, taking the lead, he grabbed John by the back of the head and pressed their mouths together into a rougher, firmer kiss. This time, so it seemed, John got the memo, opened his mouth so that Paul could slip inside, licking his way around such familiar terrain with a hand grabbing at John’s side, steadying them both so that Paul’s eagerness didn’t topple them off the couch.

 

Still, for Paul, it wasn’t enough- there was a fire burning away in his belly and his mind screamed for him to be closer to John. It was a tricky angle, sitting side by side on Mimi’s poxy little sofa, so Paul sprang up and pushed himself into John’s lap, setting a knee either side of his hips, and John scooted down a little so that Paul could lean over him, kissing excitedly, arching his back so that their fronts knocked together with every short breath.

 

John didn’t try to stop him, he just held onto Paul tighter, wrapping an arm around his back and pulling him down so that they were even closer, kissing all the way as John shifted so that his back was at the arm of the sofa, Paul in his lap, the both of them laid out across the cushions. Paul took this moment on top to his own advantage, kissing his way down John’s face to his neck, almost falling into the usual routine of making John squirm and squeal under the mercy of his mouth, before he remembered his own intentions and crawled back up to John’s mouth, whining when John bit down on his lip.

 

“Should,” Paul panted, a little breathless as he finally leant out of the kiss, John laid below him looking gorgeously dishevelled and just a little bit taken aback by the sudden turn of events, hair askew, skin flushed. “Should we go upstairs then?”

 

“Upstairs?” John blinked, before the rational part of his brain took back over control from his dick. They definitely weren’t going to _fuck_ here, on Mimi’s lily-white cushions. They’d already taken enough risk eating the cheesecake there. “Yeah, upstairs,” he nodded, “definitely.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

For all his shortcomings, John Lennon had never exactly been _slow_ on the uptake.

 

He knew something was up with Paul from the moment he’d walked in the house, all flashy smile and nervous laugh. John wasn’t stupid, he knew all of Macca’s tells by now- drumming his fingers across any and every surface in an untraceable rhythm, that was one of them. Music was a big comfort to Paul, so when he grew anxious, he made music, hoping to satisfy himself. John always noticed. He didn’t always say, but he noticed.

 

He noticed Paul was not just nervous, but _horny_ maybe five or six minutes into _Marley & Me_, but decided it might just be a little more fun to wait and see how long it would take for him to make a move. John was nothing, if not patient. He never used to be. He used to be the kind of guy who’d get high on impulse alone, but being with Paul these last six months had grounded him. John supposed, he didn’t really mind waiting for things to come around when he knew they were more or less guaranteed.

 

Paul was, by definition, a _sure thing_ \- so John obliged when he finally cracked, begging John to _just kiss him_.

 

Of course, _just kissing_ , wasn’t where it was to end.

 

John noticed that Paul was still weirdly nervous as they raced up the stairs, fumbling their way into John’s bedroom, over the creaky floorboards, shrugging out of their clothes with record timing as they had done a hundred times before. Paul more or less tackled him onto the bed with eagerness, but rolled straight over onto his back and reached out for John to lay on top of him with a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes. He didn’t see what Paul had to be nervous about- they’d done this a hundred times before, so why now, was he somehow simultaneously so eager and so apprehensive?

 

They hadn’t even taken their _underwear_ off yet, but Paul was wrapping his legs around John’s hips and pulling him close enough that they brushed together, John relinquishing control for just a second to sigh into Paul’s shoulder, delighted at the teasing feeling. Still, he couldn’t lose himself too quickly. He was still desperately curious about what exactly it was Paul was being so _jumpy_ about.

 

Maybe slowing things down would be better for his inquisition. John rolled off Paul and laid on his side, leaning over to press soft kisses against his face, his nose, his silly, long, beautiful eyelashes. Usually, Paul loved this doting, affectionate side of John- no matter how often he teased him for being a soppy bastard, he loved to be _loved_ , and John certainly had no qualms with loving him. But, however, tonight Paul’s fingers were gripping tightly onto his shoulders, trying to pull him back on top, pushing his legs apart wider until again, they were framing John’s hips. Paul arched beneath him, opening himself like a flower, head thrown back into the pillows as John kissed down his neck, teeth just skimming over a sensitive spot of skin long enough to elicit a moan, when Paul shifted down the bed slightly and (with an impressive amount of power) wrapped himself around John, pulling him down with his thighs so that they met in the centre.

 

At this, John stilled. Inside his head, the old, dusty cogs began chugging back to life. Usually, when they were like this- John on top, Paul red and panting beneath him, Paul would roll him back over, suck him off, give him a hand-job or whatever, avoiding the sexual elephant in the room. But tonight, he was pulling John _closer_ without objection. John didn’t want to be presumptuous but… if Paul _didn’t want to_ … well… he was sending out some pretty fucking mixed signals.

 

“Why’d you stop?” Paul asked quietly, arms still wrapped around John’s neck, thighs still pushed apart. “John?”

 

“Sorry.” John shook his head, leaning back a little. Try as he might, he couldn’t just _let this go_. he had to know if his suspicions were to be confirmed, it was _eating_ away at him. Besides. It would be one hell of a fucking anniversary present. “Just… I mean, if I’m wrong, it’s fine- you don’t… you don’t have to, or anything. Just… are ya- did you wanna-” he tripped and stumbled over his words, suddenly shy about saying _it_ out loud, which was beyond out of character, because John had the filthiest mouth in Liverpool and had never ever been shy about something as trivial as _sex_ \- but this was _different_. This wasn’t just _sex_. This was _sex with Paul-fucking-McCartney_. “Did you want me to-”

 

“-yes.” Paul cut him off with a fierce blush, but for once, held his eye contact unwaveringly. John had always loved Paul’s eyes. That perfect in-between colour; some day’s light brown, some days green, maybe hazel, dark yet always shining. They put his flat, boring brown to total shame, every day of the week. “Yes… fuck,” Paul pulled him closer, rocking his hips into John’s with a stifled moan. “…it’s now John. Tonight. I want ya to.”

 

John scrambled for purchase at the underside of Paul’s thighs, holding him down to stop his insatiable wriggling, lest it all be over before they really had a chance to start.

 

“Paul. Are you sure?”

 

“Of course I’m sure!” Paul laughed, reaching up to touch John’s soft chest gently, curling his fingers in the sparse hairs that gathered. “I… I love ya, Johnny. More than anyone. More than… fucking rock and roll, more than roast dinners more than anything. Just do me, please.” He threw his head back into the pillows as John kissed across his skin, nipping at his neck. “I know I’m not the first but… I want ya to do it like I’m the last you’ll ever have.”

 

“Darling,” John sighed. “You are.” And then, again, they were kissing, one hand holding Paul to the bed and the other fumbling in the bedside table, blindly grabbing a bottle of lube and a condom.

 

John knew that Paul wasn’t exactly a virgin, in any sense, but still, it had been a while and your body could forget about such things easily without continued activity, so he went as slowly and gently as he could, hoping Paul wouldn’t notice how his hands were shaking with excitement. This was what he’d been waiting for from the first time he’d laid eyes on Paul, twirling away in the cavern. This was what he’d _dreamed_ of, images he’d wanked himself silly too for months, distracted himself with whenever Mimi was yelling or Julia’s memory was lingering or life was _just getting him down_. He didn’t have Paul’s perfect ear by any means- but he listened out for the little pulls in his breath and the strain in his moans to help guide him to the perfect spot, and when he found it, John bit his own lip hard enough to draw blood in reaction to the gorgeous sound Paul sung.

 

When he did make it inside, it dawned on him immediately that he wasn’t going to last very long. This wasn’t exactly going to be the performance of his life, but, by this point, he was sure Paul hardly cared, seemingly quite close to the edge himself for all the anticipation and teasing. This wasn’t about impressing (although, he hoped, Paul wouldn’t be _disappointed_ ). This was about the connection between them, the final step, _John and Paul_ and _Paul and John_ , locked together in every way- and John was sure when Paul came, he could feel it himself, stumbling after him with a few messy, un-coordinate thrusts not a minute or so later.

 

Then, he more or less collapsed, draping himself across Paul’s sweat soaked back, still nestled inside until Paul let out a quiet whine of protest. John rolled off him, flopping on his back at Paul’s side, smiling as he noted the blissed out expression on his lovely, tired face.

 

“Alright?” he asked, reaching over to prod Paul’s cheeks until those gorgeous eyes he loved like so fluttered open, fixing on him. Paul grinned.

 

“Alright, yeah. Not bad actually.”

 

“Not _bad_? I’m a sex _God_ , admit it.”

 

“You’re _alright_.”

 

“I’d like to think I’m pretty good.”

 

Paul blinked slowly, scooting a little closer but still mostly boneless, content in his melted puddle on John’s bedsheets.

 

“You’re more than pretty good.” He said. “You’re fantastic.”

 

John smiled then too, leaning forwards to drop a kiss on Paul’s nose before sitting up, stretching his aching muscles, crying out from too much strenuous activity (not that he’d ever, dare complain, knowing all too well how Paul’s lower-back had to be fairing) before he reached under his bed for the little hand-painted box he kept his favourite goodies in.

 

“Joint?” he offered, dragging the packet of rolling papers over Paul’s face teasingly, nose scrunching up in protest before he gave a slight, dreamy nod, eyes falling closed again. “Do you want to roll it?” John offered, mostly because he was a lazy bastard, but also because Paul was ten times better at rolling than he was, second in line only, surprisingly enough, to George, who could work his nimble fingers around a bit of _grass_ record timing (and yes, they had actually timed him).

 

“Nah” Paul sighed, stretching himself out across the bed, rolling onto his back with his hands up behind his head. “You roll it. I’m beat.”

 

“Sure are.” John scoffed, under his breath, and he must’ve put on quite the show, because Paul didn’t even bother to snipe back. He just let out a pretty sigh and adjusted himself against John’s pillows. By the time the joint was rolled, John wondered if he may have fallen asleep, but with the click of his lighter beckoning like a sirens song, Paul’s eyes opened again.

 

“Give it here then.” He reached out limply, hardly bothering to move from his perfect, nestled pillow cocoon. John just laughed, handing the joint over before flopping down on the bed himself, head resting on Paul’s chest, eyes fixed to the ceiling as the smoke settled around them.

 

They finished the joint in silence, John taking the last pull before flicking the end out of the window, uncaring of the heart attack Mimi would probably induce on him when she found it in the morning. He was just too content here, laid against Paul’s chest, happily buzzed with soft fingers running through his hair.

 

 _I could die here_ , John’s high, sleepy mind thought happily. _I’m so fucking content, I could die_.

 

And then, Paul asked, “Did you ever do this with Cyn?” and John’s happy heart stuttered.

 

“Uh… no. Never,” he answered, honestly, leaning back to catch a glimpse of Paul’s face, trying to read his expression but ultimately failing. Paul was more or less unreadable at the best of times, let alone after a joint or two. The satisfied little smile on his face would’ve remained even if the roof caved in. “She hated weed and pills and all that other shite.”

 

“No… not that…” Paul’s nail dragged across his scalp in _just_ the right spot, and John had to bite back a moan. “ _This_.”

 

He had to lighten the mood somehow. _“Anal?”_ and it worked, because Paul laughed, chiding him with a light swat across the top of his head

 

“ _JOHN_!” he groaned. “I meant _this_. Just… laying together. Being silent, y’know, but… together.”

 

“Oh.” John sighed. “Well… yeah, I suppose. Sometimes.”

 

“Did you love her?” Paul asked, and John felt queasy. This wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have after fucking Paul for the first time, on the night of their six month not-an-anniversary-anniversary.

 

“Paul-”

 

“Did you?”

 

“Of course I did.” John huffed. “She was my first love. I loved her more than anything- until now of course.” He looked up at Paul again, confused to note that the spaced-out smirk was gone, replaced with an amused, giggling grin. “What- why are you smiling like that? Are you _that_ high? Shouldn’t you be throttling me by now?”

 

“See.” Paul smiled as John twisted over so that he was laid on his front, arms either side of Paul’s head, leaning over him. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

 

“What? That I loved my ex? You’re barmy son.”

 

Paul’s smile didn’t drop. He reached up to touch John’s hair again, pushing it away from his face with a smile before his hand danced lower, resting on his cheek. “You didn’t lie to me John. Any bloke would lie- you know, _oh baby, you’re my one and only, the others didn’t mean anything to me at all_ yadda yadda bloody fucking yadda. But… now this is why I know I can trust ya. This is why I let you… you know…”

 

“ _Bugger_ you?”

 

“You’re disgusting.”

 

“Sorry,” John grinned. “Make _love_ to you?”

 

“Exactly,” Paul giggled. “I let you do it because I trust you. Because you don’t lie to me about anything.”

 

John let himself be pulled down into Paul’s embrace, kissing him once on the lips before wrapping his arms around Paul entirely, tucking underneath his back and rolling them over, hugging him tightly. In the end, John was on his back, Paul tucked into his side, one leg thrown over his hip and a raven-haired head tucked into his shoulder.

 

“Well…” John said, after a few minutes of silence. “There might be one little, white lie.”

 

Paul stiffened. “What?”

 

“The night we met.” John grimaced, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. “My party, y’know- I might’ve… under-exaggerated the lengths at which I was pining for you before then.”

 

Paul leant up on his elbow, looking down at John with a curious, cocksure smirk. “Tell me more.”

 

“Don’t get so smug” John rolled his eyes, but it was to no use. Paul’s smirk only widened.

 

“Come on. I’m allowed to be a _little_ smug.”

 

“Hm.” John huffed. “It was after I saw you in the cavern. Ivan told me you went to his school so… I might’ve… maybe… hung out outside your school, under the pretences of seeing him, the prick. Spotted you and Georgie, thick as thieves, grinning at each other like mad. Thought he might be your…”

 

 _“George_?” Paul recoiled in disgust. No, never George. George was like his little _brother_. Far too weird an image. “God. I’d rather get the clap.”

 

“Just don’t bring it here.”

 

Paul laughed. “Is that it?” he asked, flicking John in the cheek. “Or is there more to this sordid story of lies and deceit?”

 

Oddly enough, John actually _squirmed_ , keeping his eyes fixed nowhere in particular, but certainly not on Paul’s. He actually looked _reluctant_ to spill whatever was on his mind, which did nothing but spike Paul’s curiosity even more.

 

“John?”

 

“That’s not totally it.”

 

“Then _what_?”

 

“Then I might’ve stalked ya one day to the chippy. And hid around the corner instead of saying hello. And watched your ass as you walked away.” With each additional confession, his voice grew more strained and Paul’s smile stretched even wider, pulling John’s hands way when he did his best to cover his eyes, shield his embarrassment.

 

“Am I that irresistible?”

 

“Well, look at me, babe.” John finally looked back at him. “I’m a mess of a man.”

 

“To be fair,” Paul sighed, settling back down beside him, John’s arm coming up to pull him in close, fingers stroking at his lower back. “I do have a _wonderful_ arse.”

 

“Feels as good as it looks.” John teased, grabbing a handful.

 

“You’re _filthy”_

 

“You _love me_.”

 

“I do. God. I love ya John.” Paul said, leaning in close to brush his nose against John’s skin, dropping kisses to the underside of his jaw. “My lovely rock n roller. My gorgeous ted. My-”

 

“-Favourite massive cock?”

 

Paul stopped kissing him then, replacing his adoration with a glare. “You’re definitely a cock.”

 

“Ah, but this cock and I love you, babe.” John held him tight, and the two of them were perfectly content, cuddled up in the dark. “Six months down the line I’m still staring at ya across the room all doe eyed like Ritch watching after our George.”

 

“They are cute.”

 

“Hm, They’re alright. They’re no _johnandpaul_ , but-”

 

“- _god_ ,” Paul laughed. “George was right. We are _disgustingly_ in love. Are we like this in public?”

 

“Of course we are. I can’t get enough of ya.”

 

“Should we go and kip then?”

 

“Should we go for round two first?”

 

“Hmm…” Paul paused, pretending to think about it for just about a second before John was pouncing on him rolling him across the bed and peppering his chest with kisses, licking across his nipples, making Paul moan and arch beneath him.  Paul sighed, more in love with the dreamy look John shot him, chin perched on his chest, than he’d ever been with any kind of music. ““I suppose,” he said, face stretching into a grin. "it _is_  our anniversary.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read / left kudos / commented on this story! I hope you liked the conclusion !


	5. part five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's New Years Eve, John is half drunk and miserable, and this time, Paul is entirely to blame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I think I'm finished with this story, another idea springs to mind. There's always gonna be another party. Happy New Year, and pretend I finished and posted this by the 1st of Jan like I originally intended. :) 
> 
> (Note: this chapter takes place BEFORE the events of part four, so BEFORE j+p's 6 months, BEFORE the g+r incident, etc etc)

 

_**NEW YEARS EVE** _

 

 

 

 

John Lennon is at a New Year’s Eve house-party, glum and tired and staggeringly sober. _What a fuckin’ waste of an evening_ , he thinks. The reason for his misery on this particular night of all nights is actually quite simple, for once. John Lennon is at a New Year’s Eve house-party, and Paul McCartney is nowhere to be seen.

 

They’d argued earlier in the week, and things had been absolutely dreadful ever since. It was a stupid, unnecessary fight, as most fights between couples are, and- in John’s opinion- entirely Paul’s fault. The whole argument had only started when John brought up the idea of _which_ party they would spend their New Year’s at- Gary Hencher’s parent-free house, or the local pub who’d decided to put on a little bit of a show with one of the local bands they sometimes knocked about with and some cheap fireworks. Failing that, they could always scrape what quid they had left after Christmas and presents and take themselves up town somewhere fancy, maybe to _London_ \- a bustling nightclub and a cheap-but-clean hotel room somewhere by the river. Paul had knocked him into quite the tailspin when he declined not one, but all _three_ of John’s offers- and then, what’s more, he proceeded to throw an absolute _bitch-fit,_ outright refusing to go _anywhere_ further than his own back garden _like he’d said in the first place_ , which to John, of course, was completely absurd.

 

New Year’s Eve, for John, is nothing less than the perfect opportunity to get absolutely legless with your mates and your favourite lad, spew everywhere by three am and wake up for some slow, tired, sleepy sex at one in the afternoon the following New Year’s Day with no work or school or college to fret over. But, for reasons unbeknownst to anybody, even now, Paul had kicked up the fuss to end all fusses about the whole _bloody_ thing and insisted he’d be spending the evening at his _family do_ \- which John has also, of course, been invited along to.

 

John just can’t wrap his head around it. He knows his own upbringing is worlds away from Paul’s cheaper-by-the-dozen brood of cousins and aunties and friends of friends, but hadn’t they just _had_ one huge party on Christmas Eve? He’d had the pleasure of meeting the whole extended McFamily, and they’d all loved him; from the old biddy grans to the screaming kids, clambering up his leg and begging for a turn on his shoulders. After that joyous experience of being the first lad Paul had ever brought home, John just can’t quite wrap his head around _why_ they’d have to do it all again hardly a week later. Paul just take a fuckin’ _day_ _off_ from being the _perfect son_? What was so unspeakably awful about having a New Years _knees-up_ with their mates instead?

 

He’s already tried asking George why Paul was being quite so stubborn about the whole affair, but, unsurprisingly, George’s loyalties lie with his mate, and his lip has, so far, remained firmly buttoned. Upon further investigation, John was also surprised to know that George hadn’t even told _Ringo_ , who he found usually much easier to worm the truth out of. According to their drummer, George had just fobbed him off with the same flimsy excuse, ‘personal reasons’ or something of the like, and he hadn’t wanted to _seem pushy_. John’s still biting his tongue even now, resisting the urge to call Ritch out as the _pussy_ he is. John knows he likes the kid. Paul knows he likes the kid. The whole flippin’ town knows that Ringo fancies George- except for George himself.

 

But petty lovesick drama isn’t what John’s here for tonight. He wants real answers, maybe another spat, maybe a solution. Maybe even all three.

 

(Maybe, John isn’t totally sure what it is he wants, past the thought of another beer.)

 

Hardly a little tipsy but certainly a lot miserable, leaning in the doorway between Gary Hencher’s kitchen and dining room, John fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette, but his fingers clasp around his phone instead. It lights up after being lifted, Paul’s lovely face filling the screen, trapping his gaze.

 

 _Fucking hell,_ John thinks to himself. _I think I need another drink._

 

Paul hasn’t texted him, nor called him, and John only realises exactly how discouraged he is by this after his fifth (or was it sixth? Did the three belligerent tequila shots with Mick Jagger count as one in between?) beer, and he fumbles for his phone a second time in the privacy of the tiny garden, stroking his thumb across the screen.

 

(It’s one of his favourite pictures of Paul, actually. John has never claimed to be much of a photographer, but it was hard to resist capturing this particular moment: Paul, shirtless by the window of his bedroom, guitar in his lap, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he went over the chords to his latest stroke of genius, sunlight behind him casting pretty shadows underneath his eyelashes. _You made me look kinda cool_ , he’d said afterwards, climbing onto the bed and snatching the phone for himself, God forbid John be in possession of any photos less than _perfect_. _You are cool_ , John had replied. _You’re the coolest lad I’ve ever met._ )

 

 _Maybe I should call him_ , a little voice in the back of his head ponders.

 

 _He’s pissed enough at you as it is. Don’t you dare call him_ , counters another, possibly the voice of his dignity- but John has never bothered paying much attention to his conscience, or lack thereof before, so why start now?

 

The phone is ringing against his ear before his brain has a chance to catch up with his fingers, and suddenly, John feels like maybe this _is_ a bit of a terrible idea, because Paul is certainly still pissed and it’s fucking New Year’s Eve and they _aren’t_ together- but it’s too late to back out, because he hears the _click_ of the phone connecting, followed by Paul’s quiet sigh: _“Yes, John?”_ flat and irritated and _cool._

“Hello love.” John breathes back, and he can almost _feel_ the way Paul rolls his eyes through the phone.

 

“ _Having fun at your little party?_ ”

 

“Not really.” John scoffs. “It’d be much more of a laugh if you were here.”

 

“ _You’re drunk John._ ” Paul says, not a question, but a statement. John is surprised at first- he’d figured he’d managed to keep his own cool quite well, but Paul’s pretty good at sniffing him out, even three and a half miles away. “ _What do you want_?”

 

“I want _you_.” John whines, leaning back against the wall of the house and fishing a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, striking a match against the cold brick. “Can’t you tell? I always want you.”

_“You should’ve thought about that before. I can’t talk anyway. I’m with my family_.”

 

“Can’t you just come here so we can talk properly?”

_“No. I can’t_.”

 

“But _Paul_ ,” John huffs, starting to get a little bit annoyed himself. If there’s one thing he can’t stand about his boyfriend, it’s the rigid, calculated stubbornness that underlies his every move. Paul is just so _fucking_ _headstrong_ \- and although he hides it well behind his perfect politeness and his fluttering eyelashes and quick-witted charm, he can be an absolute devious little prick at the worst of times, and throws only the best strops when he doesn’t get his own way. “I just want to spend the night with you, is that such a fuckin’ crime? It’s New Year’s Eve, for fuck’s sake.” John snaps, inhaling sharply. “Who am I supposed to kiss at midnight?”

 

There’s a pause, followed by this, that gives John the perfect amount of time to regret every word he’s ever fucking said in his life, let alone the last minute and a half, before Paul explodes at him, voice thick and scouse with anger.

 

 

“- _d’you know what John, go and fuckin’ kiss whoever you want if you’re that randy, you selfish bastard!  Do ya fuckin’ worst, Lennon, snog all the birds you like, ‘cause I certainly won’t be there to find out about it anyway.”_

 

This is all that John catches before the line cuts, and Paul hangs up on him, leaving him feeling alone and more miserable than ever as the party rages on in the house behind him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“He must have a reason.”

 

“He’s a fuckin’ prick, that’s the reason.” John grimaces as he sips at another beer, but it doesn’t quite hit the spot. He almost feels sorry for the girl sat beside him- she was definitely eyeing him up before he plonked himself down on the sofa next to her and started whining about his _relationship_ problems with another lad instead of chatting her up like she was probably expecting.

 

But she’s pretty, and polite, and so far hasn’t told him to fuck off- so he doesn’t mind ranting a little while longer.

 

“He’s so stubborn! He always does this, pouts and kicks off when he doesn’t get his own way, like a fuckin’ child, you know, and sometimes-”

 

She sits and she nods and she listens, but by the time it’s her turn to speak, John has lost interest entirely. Ranting about Paul to a stranger doesn’t help him _forget_ \- it just serves the opposite purpose- because now he’s thinking about Paul even more than he was before. And he’s angry with him, of course, but he still _misses_ his presence. Even when Paul’s being pouty, he’s still _cute_ , and no matter how hard he tries, it’s impossible to have the same kind of fun, sitting around drinking and smoking without Paul, tipsy and giggly and pliant at his side.

 

So John gets up from the sofa and leaves the girl to enjoy the rest of her night without his sulking, and tries his hand at an earlier failure- but certainly his best option at getting some kind of answer instead.

 

George Harrison is stoned out of his mind, as usual, bony legs slung across Ringo’s lap as he melts into the small wicker bench in Gary’s garden, passing some hash back and forth with some mates John doesn’t really recognise. The whites of his eyes are blood red and his hair is askew across his forehead, but he smiles when he sees John approach, waving him over with the beckoning call of a freshly lit _joint_. For once in his life, John politely declines, and this causes George to frown, sitting up from his sprawled position, taking his rake-thin ankles away from Ringo’s soft touch and crossing them under his lap.

 

“You want to talk about Paul.” He says without thinking, staring up at John with those suffocating, black eyes like some kind of all-knowing, all-seeing _seraph_ , and it knocks him for six. He should be used to it by now, because George is Paul’s best friend, and his quiet, eerie presence is always looming somewhere over their shoulders, but it’s hard. He’s more of a ghost than a boy, sometimes, and it scares John how easily drawn is he often feels by George. He doesn’t know how Ringo can stand it, staring at him like that across a crowded room when he thinks nobody else is watching him. Paul had almost considered starting a betting pool for when that levee broke. John was saving fifty quid under his bed just in case he changed his mind.

 

“Of course I want to talk about Paul.” John sits down in the space created between George and Ringo, the rest of the group falling silent as he shoots them a warning eye. “Give us a minute, would you lads?”

 

One looks like he might protest, but Ringo pats George’s knee and stands before any of them can speak a word, nodding back towards the house pointedly.

 

“Are you stoned enough to unbutton your lip yet, darling?” John asks once the other lads out of earshot, and George laughs quietly to himself. He’s different, now. A different George than the one John met at that party, however many months ago the summer was. Far less socially awkward but still just as strange, he keeps himself to himself mostly, and is almost impossible to read. But he certainly seems a lot less tense, and not just in the sense that he smokes a fuck-ton more dope now- he’s just more centred within himself, quietly confident and, in an odd way, almost _cool_.

 

(according to Paul, he’d been meditating and listening to weird Indian music lately, so maybe that has something to do with it.)

 

“I suppose so.” George shrugs, running his hands through his hair and sighing. “I don’t know much though, sorry in advance to disappoint.”

 

“I just need _something_ , mate. Paul’s given me fuck all to work with. All I know is that he’s really fuckin’ pissed at me.”

 

“It’s about his mum.” George says, matter-of-factly, as if she’d just popped to the shops for some milk and hadn’t been dead for three years. “That’s why he’s so touchy and doesn’t like to talk about it.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah. _Oh._ Like I said, I don’t know much- but it’s sort of a tradition. When they were kiddies, Christmas was with the McCartney’s, New Years was Mary’s holiday. They always had a party with her side of the family, and it was their big thing, so, after she died, Paul’s da’ insisted they keep up the tradition.”

 

“Fuck.” John says softly, and this time, when George hands him the joint, he doesn’t say no. The first hit is sweet, as always, but his heart is sitting so heavy in his gut he can’t really enjoy it. Of course, Paul hated not getting his own way, but he’d never throw a fit like this without good _reason_. John wanted to slap himself. Why didn’t he ever just _think_ before he acted? Mimi had always said he was too reckless for his own good.

 

“Fuck indeed.” George agrees unhelpfully, tapping out a quiet, nonsensical rhythm on the arm of the bench. “But, you weren’t to know, John.”

 

“I should’ve asked.”

 

“He wouldn’t have told ya.”

 

“I know, but I still should’ve fucking asked.” John pulls from the joint again before passing it back, standing up from the bench with legs as heavy as two led pipes. “I’ve got to talk to him.”

 

“Call him?”

 

“No time for that.” John replies, glancing down at the silver watch around his wrist. It’s a dainty woman’s wristwatch, but John doesn’t care how many odd looks are shot his way when he wears it. It was hers, _Julia’s_ , and he’s worn it every day since. And then, just like that, it hits him all at once. Of course Paul would never even think about being anywhere else for the New Year. John, of all people, knows what it’s like to cling into what little of your loved ones you have left. “New Year’s Eve,” he ponders aloud. “just gone eleven, certainly no buses around. D’you think I could walk it?”

 

“ _Walk_?” George chokes, smoke fluttering into the air from between his lips as John looks up to the sky, squinting, wishing he’d bought his glasses, because he’s almost sure that’s a dark storm-cloud creeping in on the horizon. “To _Allerton_? By _midnight?_ ”

 

“D’you think it’s gonna rain? I think it’s gonna rain.”

 

“You’ll never make it in time.”

 

“I knew I should’ve brought an umbrella.”

 

“John-”

 

 “I’ve got to _try,_ haven’t I, George?!” John startles them both with a shout, whirling around to face the scrawny, shrew-eyed boy on the bench, throwing his arms up in defeat. “I fuckin’ love him.” he adds, but quieter. “I fucking love him, George.”

 

A brief silence passes between them, George’s eyes focus on his for just a single tense second that stretches for days, before they move past John and catch glimpse of something else that neither of them had noticed before, lurking in the background. A quiet, toothy smile stretches across his thin lips, razor-sharp teeth revealing themselves inch by inch like a threat, rather than a promise.

 

“What?” John snaps, squint mean, frown deep. “What is it?”

 

“You oughta put your glasses on, son.” George replies, matter-of-factly. “That’s Gary’s bicycle.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

New Years Eve is supposed to be an excuse to drink too much, laugh too much, smoke too much around the back of the garden when Paul thinks his dad isn’t watching, giving Mike and his similar-aged cousins tiny drags of his cigarette or a joint for a laugh and a splutter. Paul has always looked forwards to New Years Eve- the whole family together, even the distant cousins and uncles and aunties from his mum’s side who don’t just live on the other side of town, friends of parent’s friends who only trekked it down to Allerton once a year to have a drink and catch up- but tonight is very different.

 

Paul will be the first to admit that he has been fucking miserable the entire night, and he’s well aware of the fact that if he doesn’t crack a smile soon, his father is likely to smack him across the back of the head.

 

But, all in all, Paul doesn’t even care about that. Not even the fear of sending Jim into a strop is enough to lift his spirits tonight. Sulking, he slinks off into the kitchen to sneak another brandy when Jim’s beady eye falters for just a second long enough. It’s only a brief moment of peace, the empty, tiny kitchen, but he soaks it up as best he can, leant back against the counter, alcohol stinging his throat, heart heavy and sad in his stomach.

 

Paul doesn’t exactly want to be sad. Drinking and quietly crying hadn’t been his initial plans for the night. If anything, after a week of squabbling with John, all he really wants is to be _pissed_ \- in both senses of the word. At least being angry would make some semblance of sense; John isn’t _here_ , not the one night that Paul really needs him, and being really fucking _pissed off_ at him would at least ease some of the aching in his chest, but it’s impossible, and all Paul is left with is the stinging aftertaste of brandy and frustration.

 

The only person he’s managed to be pissed at is _himself_. Paul knows it isn’t John’s fault, and he knows he didn’t even give him the chance to understand- let alone make things right between them, but that certainly doesn’t just make things _okay_. It doesn’t stop that same stinging feeling in his gut, maybe not just a consequence of one too many brandy’s but perhaps something bigger than the both of them; harder to explain and much rawer today than it usually is.

 

(Paul doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to say it out loud- but the truth is, it’s just a whole lot easier pretending to be cross with John than it is just feeling sad for reasons that really can’t ever be fixed.)

 

Predictably, thinking of John just continues to make him feel worse, and Paul swallows thickly around the last of his drink, wondering just how long it is before someone comes looking for him, and if he has the time to nip upstairs and dip into his stash to ease the tension. For the last few months, contrary to popular belief, John Lennon has been the biggest constant in his entire life- holding him down when he feels adrift, barely batting an eyelid at the naysayers and town gossips who were convinced John was just using him for a temporary bit of fun. With John by his side so consistently, Paul was really starting to reconsider his past insecurities. So far, John has made it seem as if he really, _really_ cared about him- and for the first time in his entire life, Paul doesn’t feel like he has to keep his guard up all the time to protect himself from potential heartbreak.

 

Still, however, cast far back into the recesses of his mind- Paul has his doubts. He doesn’t share these doubts with John. He doesn’t share them with anyone.

 

But he still thinks about them. Paul considers their future together every time John’s hands dance across his skin, calloused fingers tracing the same patterns he tickles over the strings of his guitar, lips curled around half-formed, often incorrect, lyrics. John doesn’t have the faintest clue just how much Paul relies on _him_ to sometimes get through the day- nor how almost every little decision he makes is made with John somewhere in the back of his mind, smile daft, eyes wild, collar of his leather jacket popped around his neck.

 

These are the things John can never know about Paul, because John’s still so shattered himself- his mother’s death still fresh and raw and all the pain that comes with it still burns at the forefront of his mind. John _needs_ Paul to be strong so he feels safe enough to be weak, curling up against him at night and lamenting over the things that have become and the things that now can never ever be.

 

In John’s eyes, Paul is usually so fucking _put together_ , so the prospect of John ever learning any different terrifies him. This puts him in the place he is now, trailing out of the kitchen with sunken eyes and alcohol on his breath, unable to even entertain the idea of putting on a face for the rest of the family, let alone his glaring, disappointed father.

 

“You’re fuckin’ miserable, mate.” Mike tells him, and it takes what little will power Paul has left not to start a scrap with him then and there in the bloody sitting room. “Crack a smile, it doesn’t cost anything y’know.”

 

“Shutup Mike.” He huffs, catching eyes briefly with his dad across the room, forcing himself to look away rather than simply snarl at the slightest detectable hint of a smirk on Jim McCartney’s face.

 

Paul knows he’s got it way better than a lot of boys like him in a world like theirs. Jim had never cared that he spent just as much of his time kissing lads than he did birds, but he _did_ care when the lad in question happened to be nobody other than John Lennon- the self-proclaimed _parent’s worst nightmare._

 

Which Paul can sort of understand, but he wishes his father would put aside his prejudice for a second and see past the leather and cigarettes to the _real_ John, a giant softy with a big heart and a mind as sharp and complex as a diamond.

 

“I said it was gonna rain,” Mike continues, and Paul’s gaze refocuses, unaware that he was even still speaking. “Didn’t I tell ya? Pissin’ it down out there.”

 

Paul follows Mike’s eye to the large bay window at the front of the house, facing out onto the street. Splatters of rain water rattle against the glass, racing each other down to the window pane. Paul remembers being young and sitting in the alcove of that very same window with Mike at his side, watching the raindrops race each other whilst mum laid upstairs in bed, too sick to come down and play with them anymore.

 

 _“You’re such a good big brother, Paul.”_ She used to say, voice strained and weak. _“You always keep Mike laughing when I’m down.”_

The doorbell echoes through the house, startling him enough to re-enter reality, party guests looking around at each other confused as if to say- _I’m here, you’re here, who’s left?_ Paul just frowns, glancing down at his watch at the same time Jim glares at the clock on the wall, just ticking past 11:25pm.

 

“Who’d have the gall to come here this late?” Jim mutters under his breath, standing from the armchair with a huff, leaving his pipe behind and disappearing around the living room door. Continuing to stare out of the window, Paul frowns too. He hadn’t heard a car pull up, nor had he spotted any headlights beaming through the rain. Nobody would risk making it here on foot- not in this weather, and the buses had stopped running hours ago.

 

“It’s _you_.” He hears Jim say through the door, a little incredulously. Wet footprints squeak on the wooden floors of the passageway, and an all too familiar voice quips back in response, far too innocent sounding for this time at night- on this night, of all impossible nights.

 

“Is your Paul in?” John asks, just as Paul bolts through the connecting door, skidding in his tracks like a cartoon character when he locks eyes with a sodden John Lennon, curls wet and slick against his forehead, rainwater dripping from his leather jacket. He gives Paul a small smile as the two lock eyes, lifting a wet hand to wave, raindrops splattering against the clean floor.

 

“John.” Paul breathes, unable to tear his eyes away.

 

“Hiya love.” John replies. “Happy New Year.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Reeling, Jim McCartney re-enters the party as John Lennon kicks off his boots in the porch, before accepting Paul’s hand and being dragged up the familiar rickety staircase. John knows this path. He has crept down this same staircase quite a few times before, enough so that he knows where to step to avoid any sudden noises, sidestepping his way to freedom.

 

Paul’s heart hammers beneath his chest, and he can’t be sure if it’s as result of the alcohol or the anxiety. Perhaps both, he considers, as the door to his bedroom closes behind them and John collapses against it with a sigh, head knocking back against the wood gently. They stare at each other across the room, Paul in front of the bed, facing John- John against the door, facing Paul.

 

“I’m sorry.” Paul says, but John’s voice speaks first.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Oh, John,” Paul bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, hoping he doesn’t sound quite as choked up out loud as he does in his head, before crossing the miles and miles of silent space between them, hugging John tightly.

 

“Careful,” John laughs, wind knocked out of him as Paul barrels into his chest. “You’ll get all wet.”

 

“Don’t care,” Paul mumbles against the sodden fabric of his t-shirt. “You’re here. That’s worth some soggy clothes.”

 

John and Paul hug for a long time, then. They hug and say nothing, just holding each other until Paul feels his heart slow back to a normal rate, and he laughs slightly, stepping backwards. Finally, he notices just how _soaked_ through John’s cold, clammy skin is. The imprint of rainwater sticks to his jumper.

 

“You must be freezing. Let me get you something to wear.” He turns and rifles through his dresser as John starts undressing, no need to be prompted further, wet clothes tossed in Paul’s hamper and jacket safely hung on the back of his desk chair.

 

“I’m sorry.” John says again, half dressed in a pair of Paul’s tracksuit bottoms, one of his own t-shirts- left here several sleepovers ago, clutched in his hand. It smells like Paul’s room- a hint of weed under a cloud of incense and air freshener, expensive aftershave and _home_. Paul doesn’t turn when he hears John speak again, so John steps closer, touching his waist just slightly, and after a pause, Paul turns in his arms to face him. “I just… I wish you’d’ve _said_.  I would’ve been here no matter what.”

 

“You’re here now.” Paul smiles. “That’s all I care about.”

 

He’s hoping to leave things at that, leave his embarrassing strop and all the pointless arguing in the past- but it’s clear this isn’t enough for John, hair still slightly damp but frizzing in the humidity of a house filled with people, and he rests his hands on Paul’s upper arms, holding him in place tightly as if he’d simply run away rather than face conversation.

 

“I know New Year’s Eve is hard for you. George said it was an important time for… Mary. You should’ve just told me, love. I would’ve understood. More than anyone.”

 

“I know.” Paul whispers back, even though there isn’t another soul in their vicinity. Eyes downcast, he repeats, “I know,” until John lifts his chin, forcing the two to lock eyes. “It’s just hard, y’know? Needing people. I shouldn’t’ve kicked off. You weren’t to know, I just- I was _embarrassed,_ y’know… I didn’t want you to think of me as… _weak_.”

 

“I _don’t_. I _wouldn’t_.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry John.”

 

“C’mere then.”

 

John’s skin is soft and dry as he swims closer, pressing them together in a gentle kiss, his hands lowering to grip Paul by his narrow hips, Paul in turn brushing his hands up John’s back, leaning in. _Oh yes_ , he thinks mischievously. _The best part of arguing. Kissing and making up._

 

John grins into the kiss but Paul doesn’t feel like laughing. He pushes harder, using the inch he has on John in height to his full advantage, grabbing at his face and pushing against his mouth until John opens up for him like a pretty flower, Paul pouring more and more heat into what was once a simple kiss but now is something more, nipping at his bottom lip until John jerks out of their embrace in  surprise, cheeks flushed.

 

“Have you been drinking brandy?” he asks, dead serious. Paul just smirks.

 

“Maybe.” He flirts, leaning closer. “How can you tell? Can you taste it?”

 

“Brandy makes you randy-”

 

“-C’mon John,” Paul rolls his eyes. “I’ve been pissed with you for a week, I think I owe you an apology-prezzie.”

 

“Oh, don’t tempt me.” John’s face light up _marvellously_ at the idea alone, and Paul’s gaze is drawn to his soft, taut chest just as he covers it with the t-shirt, spoiling all their fun. “Your dad would drag me out of the house by the bollocks if he came upstairs and caught me ravishing his lovely son whilst the extended family fuckin’… drank sherry and sang carols downstairs.”

 

“I can live with that!”

 

“Yeah, but I can’t.” John does kiss him again, but only once, soft and chaste, before detangling himself completely and backing away, back towards the door.  “Believe it or not, Paul, I do actually care what your dad thinks of me. And I want him to like me, I really do.”

 

“You really do?”

 

“Of course I do. You love him, so his opinion is important to me.”

 

“You’re such a softie.” Paul smirks. “Nobody would ever believe me if I told them that John Lennon turned down a chance to get his rocks off for the sake of impressing somebody’s _dad_.”

 

“Which is exactly why you’re never telling anyone.” John grins back at him, tapping Paul on the nose fondly before taking him by the hand and leading him back into the hall. “Now, c’mon.” he glances at the silver watch around his wrist. “Not long ‘till New Year. No more kissing- not until midnight, deal?”

 

“Deal.” Paul reluctantly agrees, following John down the stairs, back towards the party. “But it better be one spectacular snog, or I want my money back.”

 

“Darling.” John stops, mid step, turning to face him again with a wicked, knee-knocking grin, squeezing Paul’s hand tightly. “Have I ever delivered any less?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the fifteen minutes before midnight, John is more than happy to be paraded around the packed-out living room like Paul’s special prize, familiar smiles and new faces swimming into his view, each wanting a little piece of _Paul’s boyfriend_. It sort of makes him feel like a celebrity, being pulled in all sorts of directions, thrust in and out of random conversations that all sort of revolve around the same thing. At surface level, he supposes the whole thing could be quite overwhelming, to some. But with Paul stood right beside him, their hands intertwined, John decides he really can face just about anything.

 

“Well, we’re very glad you decided to come John. Our Paul was in a right sulk before you arrived!”

 

“Auntie Lou!” Paul whines, cheeks coming over in a light blush as his aunties and uncles and cousins all laugh. “That’s hardly fair-”

 

“What! It’s true, isn’t it Grace? Pouting like anything he was.”

 

“He was in a right state.” Mike adds, and Paul lets go of John’s hand just long enough to grab his brother by the collar of his shirt, ruffling his hair.

 

“Alright, shut it you!” they wrestle until Mike gives in, Paul’s younger cousins laughing hysterically and his old, flowery aunties tutting and shaking their heads, muttering under their breath about how _boys will be boys_. John doesn’t say anything at all. He just smiles, and every time he looks up and catches eyes with someone new, they smile back at him. _Is this how it feels?_ he wonders silently- _Being part of a real family?_

 

John decides quickly that he could get used to this.

 

He and Paul dance as the last record spins before midnight. Paul had bought his dad a fancy _bose_ speaker with thousands of songs pre-loaded onto his phone for Christmas, but he still prefers using his old vinyl player. John can’t argue with him there. It does sound more authentic, and when he whirls Paul around in the middle of the floor like a man crazed, family members and friends laughing and cheering around them, he feels the benefits. It’s like they’re in a _movie_ , fluttering around the dancefloor as smooth, old jazz fills the room, Christmas lights still strung up and twinkling. Paul moves to kiss him, but John pulls away with a grin. They’d promised, he reminds Paul, who rolls his eyes. _No kissing ‘till midnight_ \- and it’s agonising, but when John looks at his watch, he’s thankful to note that midnight is barely a few minutes away.

 

As the countdown comes on the telly, some daft presenter bird he’s never heard of rambling about the astronomical costs of this year’s fireworks display, John wraps an arm around Paul’s waist and rests their heads together. He knows instantly that he’d rather be here than at any stupid grotty house party or crammed into an over-priced, over-packed night-club, and if that makes him lame as hell, then so be it. he doesn’t care about being cool, not so much anymore. Paul’s the coolest thing he’s ever seen.

 

They count down from ten to New Years, and, mindful of Paul’s entire extended family around them, John elects to keep things as family-friendly as he can manage. He kisses Paul once on the lips, mouth closed, no tongue, and before his boyfriend can start trying to publicly ravish him as John _knows_ he will after that much dark liquor, he slobbers messy, playful kisses across his face and his forehead, splotching his lips down over his doe eyes and his nose and the stubble as his cheek until, cackling, Paul pushes him away, wiping at John’s saliva on his face with the sleeve of his jumper.

 

“You’se are so _gay_.” Mike reminds them, and John responds by grabbing him by the face too, kissing his puppy-fat cheeks until he screams, taking off out the house and in the direction of the sodden garden, some of Paul’s little kiddie cousins not far behind, laughing their heads off. John chases after them, and Paul watches on quietly, sipping his brandy, wondering how he got quite so lucky.

 

“That one’s a keeper, Paul.” His auntie Gin tells him, and Paul is surprised to note that even his _dad_ doesn’t protest. He nods, only once, and then turns back to his record collection. Paul decides to take this as a victory, and finishes his drink in one, half-drunk and grinning by the time John re-enters the house, kicking off his muddy shoes at the back door and returning to his side, red in the face and breathless.

 

“They’re quicker than they look. _Christ,_ I need a smoke.”

 

“C’mon, let’s have one out the front. Da’ won’t mind.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

By one thirty, the last of the stragglers say their goodbyes and head on home, and the party dies with them. It’s been quite a resounding success, actually. One of Paul’s aunties honest to God fell asleep in the armchair at one point- and some of his similar aged cousins who were actually quite cool deciding to smoke a joint with them at the end of the back garden might have had something to do with Paul finding it _quite_ so hilarious.

 

It’s one thirty, and Paul is a bit drunk, and more than a little high. John watches in amusement as he stumbles up the stairs, palms flat on the wall to guide him until he makes it into his room, barely taking the time to undress out of his shirt and jeans before collapsing on his bed. John doesn’t mind. It isn’t exactly the first time he’s had to strip Paul and put him to bed, and it definitely won’t be the last.

 

Once safely tucked in, John leaves Paul half-awake and mumbling nonsense. He heads down into the kitchen to fetch Paul a glass of water. They’d had a rocking good night together. Nobody wants to end New Year’s with their head in the toilet.

 

John enters the kitchen without really thinking of the one party guest left behind. Mike, drunk out of his skull after two beers and half a glass of Paul’s brandy had retreated to his own bed an hour ago. It only occurs to John as he opens the kitchen door that he hadn’t seen Jim follow.

 

At first, he doesn’t notice John’s presence, stood at the end of the kitchen, throwing away stacks of paper plates. But after a few steps on the creaking floorboards, Jim McCartney turns and looks at him. Silence passes between them. Distantly, John is reminded that this is perhaps the first time they’ve ever been left in a room alone together.

 

“I… uh… thanks for coming, John.” Jim says awkwardly after thirty long seconds of aching silence. “Thanks. Paul was… happy to see ya.”

 

“No problem, Sir.” John nods. If he wanted to, he could’ve been everything Jim McCartney dreaded him to be. A bad influence, a cheeky, good-for-nothing drifter, scooping up his perfect little son and taking him along the road less travelled. John knows if he was a dad, he’d probably despise himself to. He also knows it’d be so easy to wind Jim up, even now, alone in the dark- but he won’t. It goes against his every cocky instinct, but he won’t. Because what he said to Paul earlier still reigns true. Paul loves his dad, and so, John cares an awful lot for his opinion.

 

“How will you get home?” Jim asks, faintest stroke of concern running through his voice when he looks outside and notices the heavy rain, still slicing down, more menacing now than before. “Bus, I suppose?”

 

 “Oh well, no buses at this time. Not on New Years Eve.”

 

“You’ve got the bike though?”

 

“Funny story, actually.” John forces himself to laugh, hands tucked into the pockets of Paul’s sweatpants. “It’s not really mine. I sort of… borrowed it, from a mate. I’ll probably just bike it back to his, then walk home. Cut through the field maybe.”

 

“Ah, but it’s late. I wouldn’t want your auntie worrying about you.”

 

“She always leaves the porch light on. Plus, I’m a big boy. I’ll be alright. I’ll get out of your hair once Paul’s asleep.”

 

“It’s raining.” Jim says, as if it wasn’t obvious, water rattling against the thin glass windows.

 

“Yeah. It is.”

 

“You should… stay. If you’d like. Stay here for the night. It’s… no trouble, really.”

 

Jim doesn’t look at him after that. John just stands in the doorway, stunned. It takes him what feels like an entire hour to reply with a shaky nod and a quiet _thanks_ before pouring Paul’s water and leaving the room, heart hammering.

 

This has _never_ happened before.

 

John has only ever slept in Paul’s bed on a hanful of occasions, and those usually involve climbing in (or sometimes, _out_ ) of windows- ducking and Diving from Paul’s room to the bathroom with the hope that Jim wouldn’t heart the extra set of footprints creeping across the creaking floorboards or notice an extra auburn-coloured head in the bed on the off chance he poked around the doorway for a look.

 

He’s never been _invited_ to stay before. It feels warm, weirdly. Like he’s a part of something.

 

“Here, love.” He nudges Paul as he climbs onto the bed, and Paul sits up with a far away smile, downing the entire pint of water in one go, before hiccupping, laughing as John rubs his back. “Easy. You’ll drown.”

 

“I was thirsty.” He says. “Did you see my dad?”

 

“Yeah.” John nods. “He asked if I wanted to stay over.”

 

“He _did_?” Paul blinks, and John has to bite his lip to stop himself from groaning. Paul’s the cutest boy in the world, especially when he’s drunk, movements all slow and heavy. “Bloody hell. He must be drunk.”

 

“I don’t think so. I think, maybe, he might actually be starting to like me.”

 

“Either way,” Paul stretches with an almighty yawn, before wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders like a clingy octopus, pulling him down into the bed. “I’m happy. Give us a kiss, Johnny.”

 

John complies, and Paul’s mouth tastes like brandy and cigarettes and that lemon drizzle cake his auntie made that they’d scoffed when their munchies kicked in.     Kissing Paul is _hypnotic_ \- so mind-bending and knee-trembling he almost doesn’t notice Paul gaining the upper hand, wrapping his legs around John’s hips before flipping them over, wobbling only slightly as he bends down and starts his assault across John’s neck, tongue teasing as it probes out from between his lips, dancing across John’s skin.

 

“Hey, easy now!” John laughs, pulling him up by the back of the head. “You’re _pissed_.”

 

“And you’re _hot_. What’s the difference?”

 

“C’mon, we’ve got our whole lives to do _this_. Don’t you fancy some kip?”

 

Paul looks, for a moment, as if he might protest. However, all that escapes as he opens his mouth is a big fat yawn, and John smiles.

 

“See? You’re knackered love. Come and lay down.”

 

“Will you really stay all night?” Paul asks. “I’ve missed ya, Johnny.”

 

“I really will.” John replies, kissing his soft cheek as Paul settles down on his left side in the little bed. “Go to sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

 

Paul is out like a light within minutes. John is reluctant to get too comfortable too quickly. He knows Paul pretty well by now, knows his night-time habits. He’s knocked for six right now, light snores already starting, but give it a few hours and he’ll bolt awake, parched as hell. John eyes the empty glass on the bedside and decides he doesn’t really have a choice. He’ll have to cross Jim’s path again, sooner or later.

 

Jim McCartney surprises him, not ready for bed in the slightest, instead- sat at the kitchen table, smoking his pipe and watching the rain out of the window wistfully, like a character from a nineteen-fifties crime drama.

 

“Sorry.” John alerts Jim to his presence, feeling like an intruder on a private, quiet moment. “Just getting Paul some more water.” He explains, awkwardly, stopping halfway between the door and the sink. Jim doesn’t turn to face him. John continues rambling. “He’s asleep right now but later-”

 

“-does he still do that? Wake up in the middle of the night, dying of thirst?”

 

“Yeah! Has he always done that?”

 

“Since he was a boy.” His face is still turned the other way, but John is sure he can spot the ghost of a smile in the reflection on the glass panel of the back door. “He’d come into our bedroom every night asking for a drink. I’d tell Mary to leave him, and he’d grow out of it, but she could never resist him.”

 

“Yeah.” John sighs. He knows all too well just how irresistible Paul McCartney can be. “I know the feeling.”

 

“A mother’s love?” Jim misunderstands him, but John is glad, a blush springing to his cheeks. He’s sure the last thing Jim wants to picture is quite how enticing he finds his eldest son.

 

“Erm, yeah. Sort of. That’s… that’s what I meant.”

 

“Paul says you lost your mother too.”

 

“Yeah.” John nods, stomach sinking. He doesn’t know why, but he feels the need to explain himself to Jim. He wants him to know that he isn’t just some big fuck-up, some tragedy waiting to happen. “We weren’t… I’ve always been raised by my auntie. Things with mum were complicated.”

 

“Families rarely aren’t.”

 

“I still miss her though.” He admits, and finally, Jim turns to face him.

 

“You always will.” He says, gravely, before emptying his pipe in the ashtray. “Thanks again… for coming tonight, John. Paul needed you here. You… make him happy.”

 

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, make him happy.”

 

“Not just tonight. In general. He’s… different. I can’t explain how, he just is. So I’m grateful, for that.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Goodnight, John.”

 

“Night, Mr McCartney.”                                                    

 

So far, in their entire history together, it’s the nicest Jim has ever been to him. So John doesn’t push his luck. He fills Paul’s water and retreats back upstairs, leaving the glass at his bedside before climbing in. In his sleep, Paul rolls over and flops down on his chest, mumbling to himself and drooling slightly. John just sighs, looking down at him fondly.

 

It is only then that John remembers the trip. Paris, France, the two of them let off the leash in the most romantic city on the planet in the summer to come. He was supposed to wait- save it for Valentine’s Day or their anniversary, just so the surprise would be meaningful and romantic and all that other shite. But now, thinking back on the evening they’d spent together… John can’t think of a better time.

 

For now, he’ll sleep on it. Tomorrow, he’ll wake Paul up with two tickets to Calais, and little to no plan on how they’ll move any further than that. Truth be told he doesn’t really care where they end up anyway. Just so long as they go together, he’s pretty fuckin’ chuffed.


End file.
